The Warrior's Way
by love.devil.movies.baby
Summary: What happened after the movie? Tommy is still faced with the consequences of deserting and the task of healing the 14 year rift between he and his family. It takes time and help to heal and it's a long road to redemption. Tommy/OC
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: In my humble opinion, Warrior was one of the best and most underrated films in 2011. The story telling was wonderful, the script suburb, th****e performances moving. And the ending left me wanting more. So I took it upon myself to write an epilogue of sorts. I've inserted a character of my own design to move the plot. I hope you enjoy it. If you do, please feel free to leave a review. Constructive criticism is always appreciated and desired.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the settings, characters or situations in the movie "Warrior". This story is an exercise in creativity only and not to be used for profit in any way. **

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><p>It became a rhythm after a while; the familiar lull of casino sounds, the scent of cigarettes. The acidic smell had stopped bothering me by now. It had faded into the background with the rest of my surroundings: the music, the conversations, and the computerized sound of coins clattering in a dish. I arbitrarily push buttons, barely registering my actions as I jerk the handle down. The lights blink, the wheels spin and a series of sevens flash and wink cheerfully at me.<p>

An older woman next to me congratulates me on my win, and I offer her a prefatory smile. The elderly woman's face briefly registers recognition. Acting quickly, I cash out, not even bothering to look at the amount. I flash another smile, collect my ticket and haul off as quickly as my stilettos will allow.

My heels click quietly on the low pile carpet. I study the pattern—a tacky design of colored circles and swirls—the words of my boss still echoing in my head. I am not accustomed to failure. As a sports reporter and a woman in a predominately male world, I have developed tough skin early on. It took a certain amount of grit to power into the men's locker room night after night and ignore the bare, masculine bodies around me. You do not get the story by hanging out in the background. You elbowed, clawed and sweet talked your way into an exclusive interview. It was a skill that after 5 years I had gotten pretty damned good at. I was becoming a household name, a fixture on ESPN, a figure seen stationed on basketball courts, football fields and college arenas. I never fail to get the story.

Except once. It was not my fault, per se. How was I to know that the star player of the MLB's biggest team would be indicted on steroid charges at the exact moment that I had stepped outside to take a call? That thirty second lapse of time had cost me a vital sound bite and landed me in the producer's office, hands folded in my lap, getting scolded like a teenager in detention. You did not make it to the big show by making mistakes. And this mistake had earned me a one-way ticket to Atlantic City.

It is not really so bad. MMA fighting is the up and coming sensation and I am at its biggest event. The only trouble is, I know nothing about it. No statistics, no faces. I barely have a grasp of its rules. And there has been no time to prepare. The rookie reporter came down with pneumonia, so here I am, stuck in a smoky casino in Atlantic City, hoping for something interesting to happen so I can wheedle my way back into familiar territory.

I fiddle with my ticket, absent-mindedly going over my game plan. All I need is one story, just _one_. A Cinderella tale would be best, but I will settle for an upset. There has to be a fighter here with an interesting back story, some harrowing tale of a long road to success. I just have to find him and convince him to talk to me. No problem.

I stroll through the casino with some vague notion of cashing out my ticket, noticing that fewer and fewer people are occupying the machines as I get closer to the back wall. I briefly note one man sitting alone, seemingly as lost in thought as I am. Something about him gives me reason to pause. He looks familiar. Quietly I slide into a seat adjacent to him.

It takes a moment of scouring my mind before the answer comes to me. This man is Tommy Riordan, the black sheep of the Sparta tournament. I had seen him briefly before the opening ceremonies. He is some sort of internet sensation, a nobody who beat a contender to a bloody pulp in some gym in Philadelphia.

Now _this_ is something I can work with.

I take a moment to study my target. Dressed down in a dark thermal shirt and jeans he does not look like much. One might assume he is just a kid—some out of towner down on his luck, gambling his last dollar away on the penny slots. Riordan shifts his weight, adjusting the plastic cup on his knee. This shift in his posture sends the muscles under his clothing rippling. In that brief moment it becomes clear to me that this is a man of considerable physical power, a man to be watched. Under the guise of rooting in my purse for change, I chance a glance at his face. He has messy brown hair cut in no discernible style, gray eyes rimmed in long dark lashes, full, pouty lips that belong on a model. He makes himself unassuming in everything from his clothing to his posture; his shoulders hunch forward, his head is bowed. He's shutting the world out. What stands out though is the absence of the bells and whistles the other fighters possess. No cockiness, no tight t-shirt decorated in sponsor logos, no entourage, not even a glimmer that he has any particular feelings about the chance to win 5 million dollars. You could walk right past him and the only thing that might register was that there was a very sad looking individual playing the slots along the back wall.

A shuffling of feet startles me from my observations. I quickly turn to my game, focusing on the task of gambling for the first time all night. A man is approaching Riordan like he knows him. I make note of his grizzled appearance and also the familiarity in which he speaks to the fighter seated at the slots. Their exchange seems largely one-sided and I feel myself losing interest. My attention snaps back however, when Riordan thrusts the contents of his cup into the older man's face. A host of coins spills out over the carpet, showering the pair. Riordan is staring at the man the way one might look at a cockroach. It is a look that could make a grown man want to run for cover. I am no exception. In all of my years of dealing with competitors who will say anything to intimidate an opponent, I have never seen a look so full of loathing. It makes me wish I had never taken a seat anywhere near the surly fighter.

The older man's back is toward me and I find myself wishing I could glimpse his face. It is hard to judge emotion from the back of a man's head. However, the defeated slump of his shoulders and the sad glance he tosses backwards at an impassive Riordan place me in the older man's corner. I wonder how heartless you would have to be to publically embarrass someone like that.

"Enjoy the show?" a scratchy voice with a thick Philly accent asks me, every syllable dripping with disdain.

I will myself to sink into the carpet and disappear. When the universe refuses to oblige me, I do what I always do when I am nervous. I assume my reporter face.

"Excuse me?" I ask, coolly sliding another coin into my machine.

"You know, you think you're real slick sweetheart, but I could see you over there." Riordan spins in his chair, two imposing arms crossed over his chest.

"Really?" I ask, eyebrow raised. "I came over here to play the slots." I gesture to the machine, mentally slapping myself for sitting down at a game that featured a large picture of a Persian cat.

"Oh yeah?" he leans forward suddenly and I flinch, fearful for a moment that he will strike me. Instead, he glances at the winning ticket propped up against my purse. "200 bucks wasn't enough for you? Thought you'd try your luck at "Kitty Glimmer"?"

For once, words fail me. "I like cats." I stutter.

This comment seems to coax a smile out of him. Or at least his lips twitch at the corners. "I think you like fights, Nicole Ryan."

"You watch ESPN?" I ask.

"I've been known to." He turns back to his game.

"What else have you been known to do?" I see my opportunity.

"Not talk to reporters." His curt statement seems to mark the end of conversation. I am not going to have that.

"Throw coins in old men's faces?" I question point blank.

"You've got no idea what the hell you're talking about." Riordan does not even blink at my accusation.

"Enlighten me."

"And see my story on Sports Center? No thanks." He scoffs.

"It's going to be on there either way. Might as well be on your terms."

"You threatening me?" I have his full attention again.

"Of course not." I wave my hand as if the whole thing is inconsequential. "Just trying to get a feel for the enigmatic Tommy Riordan. Care to shed some light?"

"Not really." He stands up, wipes his hands on his jeans.

"You know," I hurriedly rise after him, not bothering to cash out of Kitty Glimmer. "the less you say, the more attention you'll get." I shove my purse on my arm, barely remembering to grab my 200 dollar ticket.

"So?" he is moving off quickly now.

"So," I maneuver to get in front of him, "Give them a little something. Might turn the heat down."

"Look," he pins me with a glare that could make lesser men shit themselves. "I didn't come out here for popularity and interviews."

"What did you come out here for?" I am intrigued now.

"To fight." Without further preamble he shuffles past me. "Have a good night Ms. Ryan." He calls over his shoulder. "Cash that ticket."

I watch him disappear into the elevator, my winning ticket in my hand. I glance down at it, reflecting that if I really want to win big in Atlantic City this Independence Day, I will score an interview with Tommy Riordan.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **** Constructive criticism is always appreciated and desired.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the settings, characters or situations in the movie "Warrior". This story is an exercise in creativity only and not to be used for profit in any way. **

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><p>I stare at the flickering image on my computer screen in abject shock. Google has never before failed me so badly. I have tried every search I could think of—Google, Facebook, Twitter, public records, service records, arrests—and have come up completely empty handed. Nothing. It is as if Tommy Riordan is some figment of imagination, an enigma with no past.<p>

I suppose that is a story in itself, though not a particularly interesting one. I tap my fingers lightly over the keyboard, formulating another game plan. Everyone has a back story. And if Riordan is not going to volunteer his, then damn it, I will find someone who would.

I flip through the program lying on the bed next to me, briefly registering the faces of the fighters. The men who had already been knocked out have been crossed off unceremoniously. Losers got a brief press conference afterwards, a few necessary questions. No one cares who lost, unless the loss was spectacular. I had obtained the necessary sound bites from the fallen fighters, including some footage of Mad Dog Grimes being carried dizzily away from the ring. Grimes had talked a loud game about what he would do once he got a hold of Riordan, and all he got for his trouble was a knock out and bruises and welts the size of eggs decorating his face.

Riordan is an animal; a silent killer, moving his way swiftly up the ranks. He is the most interesting fighter by far. And no one knows squat about him.

I dive for my purse on the nightstand, desperate for answers. And I know who has them. Gavin picks up on the third ring, sounding for all the world like he would love nothing more than to slap me.

"You know it's three in the morning, right?" he says in lieu of a proper greeting.

"I need your help." I cut straight to the chase.

"This had better be good. You call me the night before the 4th of July and expect me to just drop everything—."

"I'll buy you coffee every day for a week."

There is a slight scuffle on the other end. "Two weeks. And it had better be _good _coffee. Not that crap they sell at Starbucks."

"Fine. " I acquiesce. "I need you to find out about someone for me."

"Did you try an internet search?" his voice drips sarcasm.

"Obviously. He's not on it."

"Impossible."

"Prove me wrong. His name's Tommy Riordan."

"No shit?" I have Gavin's attention now. "Riordan's a beast. He's been demolishing guys."

"He won't talk to the press." I say.

"He's the hottest thing in MMA right now. You should interview him."

"I'm trying. He's not exactly an open book." I try to keep my irritation level to a minimum. I focus on deep breathing as Gavin goes through some typical male ranting. Riordan, apparently, is becoming a god in the MMA world. He is a war hero, a bad ass. I stop listening at a certain point and instead study my reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall. My cocoa colored skin has a sort of ashen haze over it, a byproduct of the lack of moisture in the casino air. It is no surprise that Riordan is not keen on giving me an interview. It might sound cocky, but I am aware that appearances play a large part in television reporting and that being attractive is an asset. At the best of times, my thick mat of black hair is straightened and curled inward at the ends, dusting just below my shoulders. I always opt for minimal makeup, but now my mascara is smudged under my eyes, rimming the dark orbs in a black kohl circle. I look like a college co-ed after a walk of sham, not the put together reporter I normally am. I decide not to dwell on my haphazard appearance and bring my attention back to Gavin.

"God, if you got an interview with this guy…" Gavin says.

"I'd be forgiven." I tell him.

"And then some."

"So help me out."

"All right," Gavin sounds like he is getting out of bed. "There's not a lot known about him. Let me dig around a little bit, and I'll call you."

"The fights tomorrow. Or tonight, rather," I glance at the clock.

"The sooner you hang up, the sooner I can get this done." Gavin's trademark sarcasm rings in my ears as I lay down on the bed.

I have always had a hard time sleeping in hotel rooms. I am a home body at heart and foreign places do not sit well with my subconscious. But the exhaustion of traipsing about in heels all day, diving between huge, sweaty men to get shots and interviews had finally caught up with me. I try to focus on the task at hand. I have less than 24 hours to get a good story, something of substance. There is no time to rest.

Groggily, I weigh my options. I can focus on another fighter as a failsafe, a backup plan in case Riordan does not pan out. I look back at the program and find a picture of a fighter staring up at me: Brendan Conlon, a 30-something whose best days look to be far behind him. He has dirty blonde hair and the kind of face that is not unpleasant to look at, but easily gets lost in a crowd. He is not spectacularly muscular, not terribly imposing and is not even posed in a way that might strike fear into a man's heart. He is almost skinny, and even in his picture he projects an air of neglect. Surprisingly, he does not have an X through his name. I have found my underdog.

A quick search of his name yields much better results than Riordan. Conlon is a high school physics teacher, a former UFC fighter and a family man. He will be a good one to interview, and I am willing to bet his people will be clamoring for him to get a little media exposure. I study the picture of Conlon, trying to register why his name sounds so familiar. Absently, I flip through the book, scanning a list of coaches and trainers. A name catches my eye: Paddy Conlon.

It might be a coincidence, but still, a lead is a lead. I plug the Irish name into the search engine with my fingers crossed. After scrolling through several pages of results, I am about ready to give up. On a whim, I add the word "Sparta" to my search. The result flashes on the screen and I find myself lunging for the program.

Paddy Conlon is Tommy Riordan's trainer. I picture the defeated old man from a few hours earlier. There is enough resemblance between him and Brendan Conlon that the question arises in my mind. But why would a relative of Brendan Conlon chose to train a rival, especially one who treats him so poorly? The casino scene plays in my mind. That is certainly not how I imagine fighters treating their coaches. There is too much familiarity in that exchange, too much emotion. Following a hunch, I search Tommy again, but add the name Conlon.

Google does not fail me this time. My eyes fly across pages of information. Paddy Conlon is Tommy's father. He'd coached him very successfully in high school to several championships. Then there was a period of years where the trail ran dry. I glance through Tommy's service records.

Holy shit.

"Gavin?" I am back on my phone in the blink of an eye. "I found something. Something big."

Here is the story I have been looking for.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: **** Constructive criticism is always appreciated and desired.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the settings, characters or situations in the movie "Warrior". This story is an exercise in creativity only and not to be used for profit in any way. **

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><p>A few hours later, I am showered, reasonably rested and have an attack plan. I have arranged for ten minutes with Brendan Conlon after his first match of the day. Conlon is scheduled to fight the front runner in Sparta, a Russian powerhouse named Koba. Even with my limited knowledge of the sport, I know he has a snow ball's chance in hell of winning. Still, I hope for the best for him. A win means a good story.<p>

I stand with the rest of the reporters, watching the fight happen. It is a David and Goliath tale at its finest. I give Conlon brownie points for not pissing himself as he steps into the ring. He looks calm, like a hulk of a man isn't practically growling at him from ten feet away. Conlon's trainer is keeping him focused, playing Beethoven. I scan the audience, my eyes landing on a blonde woman in the second row who is waving and blowing Conlon kisses. I have not seen her all weekend, but Conlon looks at her like the sun is shining out of her hair. His wife, if I had to guess. I make a mental note to try to talk to her later.

The fight lasts longer than anyone anticipated. I pride myself on the ability to be relatively objective when watching sports. But watching Conlon take beating after beating is proving difficult. He is absorbing punches like a sponge absorbs water. His face is a road map of cuts and bruises, his features difficult to distinguish with all of the swelling. His wife looks like she is close to biting her fingernails down to nubs. I sympathize, praying for an end to the bloodbath.

It comes in the form of a tap out. It is Koba, caught in a web of limbs, who pounds on the mat. The arena explodes. A miracle win, the announcers shout. A Cinderella story come true. The physics teacher is going to the finals.

I corner Conlon in the locker room, shoving other reporters back until I make contact with his coach. I have secured the first interview. Jealous glares from other reporters chase my retreating form into a back room where Conlon is being patched up. His wife is a ball of nervous energy at his side, looking at once relieved, elated and terrified.

"Congratulations," I offer a smile as my cameraman sets up beside me. "You're going to the big show."

Conlon nods, still dazed from the emotion of it all, and I am sure, from the blood loss.

"So tell me," I maneuver my mic into position. "We've heard a lot from the other fighters here, but nothing from you. You've silently defeated men who were sure they were going to make short work of you." You can hear a pin drop in the room; every eye is on Conlon and I. "What's motivated you?"

"My family." The answer is so genuine, sweet in its simplicity. I find myself moved firmly into Conlon's corner. "It's always for them." A bloodied hand reaches out and he grasps his wife, who appears to be crying.

We go through the basics, a few questions about his teaching career, a short but moving story about his daughter's health struggles and his struggles to provide. Brendan Conlon is the American dream, a hard worker, an underdog scraping his way to success.

"You're fighting Tommy Riordan tonight." My statement sucks the air out of the room like a vacuum. "His coach is Paddy Conlon; any relation?" I mean for the question to be a sort of joke. But Conlon glances suddenly at his wife. Even his trainer looks worried.

I let the silence permeate, still waiting for my answer. Finally, Conlon clears his throat. "My father, yeah."

I quickly regroup, pushing the thousand thoughts that rise up at his response to the back of my mind. "You father is coaching another fighter? Not you?"

"He's always coached Tommy." Conlon answers calmly.

"You know Tommy Riordan?" the shock is apparent in my tone.

"He's his brother." The answer comes not from Conlon, but from his wife. She is standing there, eyes wide.

All at once, I am being forced from the room. Before I know what happened, Conlon's trainer has me on the wrong side of the door. I briefly hear some half-assed apology, something about Conlon needing to prepare, before the door is shut in my face.

But I have what I need. I haul back upstairs, desperate for my computer. The raw footage is uploaded and sent to ESPN headquarters before I have even fully processed it. Brothers. Brothers fighting each other for 5 million dollars.

My phone buzzes. Gavin yells something into the receiver.

"What?" my head is swimming.

"Turn on the television, for God's sake!" Gavin sounds panicked.

I fumble with the remote, mashing the buttons until I get to CNN.

"He deserted." Gavin tells me the story as I listen to it unfold on the television. "His whole crew killed in friendly fire. Jesus…this is big. You have to get him before military police do."

I don't even bother turning the television off. I run, my cameraman Nick in tow, down the halls of the hotel, banging down doors and looking for Tommy Riordan. People direct me, tell me to turn right, go down four doors, second on the left. I pound on the plywood door of room 425, praying someone will answer.

I get an answer, but it is not Tommy. The grizzled old man, Paddy Conlon, looks a little worse for the wear. I cannot get a straight answer out of him. He is obviously hungover, possibly still drunk. He seems confused, asking where his boys are. I feel the sudden, sick swoop of pity punch me firmly in the gut. I vow to come back and check on this man. But I have to find Tommy.

Back in the locker rooms I finagle my way to Riordan's room. The news has not broken quite yet, but it is only a matter of time. The changing room is empty, and I feel my hear t sink. Nick offers some sort of empathetic pat, suggests we check back upstairs. Then a door in the back opens and Tommy Riordan shuffles in. He looks surprised, opens his mouth to say something.

"I know." I cut him off. "I talked to Brendan. I talked to Paddy."

There is another long silence. I reflect that my strategy might not be the best under the circumstances. Riordan is capable of beating me to death, and he looks as though he is contemplating it.

"CNN ran a story on you. On what you were doing in Iraq." I continue.

He purses his lips, shifts his weight. "You heard the whole story?"

"Your friend's widow was on the news. She told them."

"They're coming?" he looks like a child. I know he is referring to the police. Guilt seeps into me. I did not contemplate the ramifications of digging into this man's past. And even though it was not technically me who broke the story of him deserting, I feel responsible.

"Probably. And soon, I won't be the only one who knows." I swallow hard. I have this one chance to sway public sympathy in his direction. We stare at each other, me silently willing him to agree.

"Fine. I'll talk to you." One thick finger points directly at me. "No cameras."

Nick and I exchange eye contact. He nods, moves out of the room. Tommy is already seated on a bench, watching me expectantly.

"Well?" his voice is hard. He hunches on the bench, his shoulders rolled forward, his hands clasped in his lap.

I fumble for a notebook and my recorder. It has been a while since I interviewed the old-fashioned way. I hit "record" position the device between us, uncap my marker.

"Where do you want me to start?" he asks.

"At the beginning." It is the best I can hope for.

It takes coaxing to pry the story out of him. He keeps his voice impassive, like he is telling me things about a stranger, not his own life. He tells me about his mom dying, about joining the Marines. He tells me about his friend Manny, the day he died. He briefly relates deserting, coming across the troops he saved.

"What was I supposed to do, let them drown?" he asks, his voice almost pleading. I have no answer.

"And then you came home." I prompt him.

"Met up with my pops. Joined the gym. Knocked Grimes out," he stops suddenly and sniffs. For a moment, I think he is crying. But he wipes his face and looks back up at me.

"And now you're fighting your brother." I say.

"Yeah."

No matter how I try, he refuses to say anymore on the subject.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: ****Thank you for reading! If you have a moment, please review this story to let me know if it's worth continuing.**

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><p>"He sounds like a dick."<p>

It is an hour before the fight. I take a moment to eat something, silently processing the day. Nick is sitting across from me. He takes a bite of his burger, wipes his mouth on his hand.

"You'd think so, but…" I shake my head. I am too emotionally invested in this, even as I should be applauding myself. I got the story, the exclusive. My producer is ready to throw me a party. I can relax.

Instead, I am all wound up.

"Doesn't it make you wonder what happened between them?" I ask Nick. He shrugs.

"It's none of our business."

"Yeah, but…" I search for a way to express what I feel. "Paddy Conlon's face this morning, the way Brendan's wife looked, the fact that their brothers and haven't said a word to each other all weekend," I tick the list off on my fingers.

"A lot of people can't stand their brothers. Sounds like a family with problems." Nick starts scarfing fries.

"It's sad." I pick at my own food.

"World's a sad place. But at least you got the story. And you won 200 bucks. It's a good weekend."

I laugh. Nick fails to notice that my smile does not reach my eyes.

"Stop caring so much." My producer tells me later over the phone. I am stationed in the hallway leading out to the cage. There are ten minutes to go until fight time. You can practically feel the excitement pulsing in the air. "You get yourself in trouble with this. Remember?"

"I know." He does not have to remind me of all the times I have gotten myself in too deep with my stories. It is the reason I went into sports. Hard news used to send me home crying most days of the week. A trip to New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina had been my undoing. I resigned within moments of returning to the station and a month later, I was interning for ESPN. Sports are safe. Objective. Unemotional.

Or at least, they were.

"You should have seen this guy." I tell him.

"I did. I saw him in the footage you sent. I heard his story. It's brilliant. Great stuff."

"These are people," I impart to him. "Not a soap opera."

"Honey," my producer's tone is condescending, "they put their problems out there. We film it, inform the public. It's our job. And you do it well." When I do not respond, he continues, "film the fight, get the last interview and get back down here." He hangs up.

I wander back out, unable to shake my feelings of unrest. Nick waves happily at me from his place by the cage. He is excited to be filming the fight. I should be excited too. I got the scoop.

The sounds of Beethoven fill the air and the crowd erupts. Brendan Conlon is walking to the cage, head high, arm in arm with his trainer. He blows a kiss to his wife, climbs in. He is focused.

An entire section of Marines in uniform begins to sing, heralding the arrival of Tommy Riordan. His father is not with him. He walks alone up the aisle, pausing only to salute his brothers from the Corps. He does not spare his real brother a second glance.

What happens next is brutal. I am plugged in wirelessly to Nick's camera, so I can hear every grunt, every sickening smack of flesh on flesh. I can hear the pop of Tommy's shoulder, I can hear Brendan's desperate attempts to make his brother stop fighting.

I hear them cursing, sobbing and finally, the sound of Brendan telling his brother that he is sorry. That he loves him.

I have no idea what he could be sorry about, but I find myself struggling not to cry all the same. I lean down to compose myself and miss Tommy tapping out. Nick swoops in for the shot of the winner, but Brendan pushes him back. His arms are around his younger brother, his attention entirely focused on him. The fight has taken a total of less than 15 minutes, and somehow, the Conlon brothers have reached some understanding.

Brendan all but carries Tommy out of the ring, his trainer in tow. I see Paddy Conlon, a bittersweet look etched on his face. I see Brendan's wife rushing after them. Acting on instinct, I follow them. Not for the story, but for myself. I have to know. I sneak down the hall, encountering little resistance. The brothers are literally and figuratively wrapped around one another. Only Brendan's trainer casts me a warning glance.

"No cameras," I hold up my palms. "I just wanted to make sure they're ok."

Brendan's wife looks back at me. "Let her in."

The trainer looks surprised. He opens his mouth to protest but she cuts him off.

"Frank, Tommy's going to need all the sympathy he can get," she glances at a few Marines waiting to take Tommy into custody.

"Tess is right," a gruff voice imparts. "We're going to need help."

Paddy Conley sizes me up. Four other pairs of eyes join his.

"Well," Brendan looks up at me, still holding his bleeding brother. "Can you help?"

"Yes." I hear myself agreeing. "I can help."


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: Thank you for reading and especially to those who reviewed! **

**If you have a moment, please review this story to let me know if it's worth continuing. Thanks!**

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><p>"He only wants to talk to you." The words are like a savior.<p>

I am standing in what can only be described as a media circus. The front parking lot of the Marines Corp Headquarters is absolutely bursting at the seams with reporters. There are live trucks, camera crews, and photographers everywhere. And I am standing in the absolute center of it all. I did not bother to bring Nick; cameras will not be allowed in that building anyway. I arrived this morning entertaining the simple notion that I might be able to make contact with Tommy and establish a plan of action. By all rights, I should not even really be here. I am technically on vacation; I was unable to convince the producer that the story was worth pursuing beyond Sparta. So I took my annual vacation, but instead of packing my bikini and heading for a warm beach, I packed some suits and headed for Arlington, Virginia.

This is a nightmare. The mantra runs through my head on repeat as I snake around bodies, trying to figure out what I am going to do. Brendan Conlon warned me from the hotel this morning that it might be difficult to gain access to Tommy. Talk about an understatement. I fiddle with my phone, punching in the unfamiliar number that will connect me to the Conlon family.

Brendan, his wife Tess, their two daughters and Paddy Conlon are all shacked up in two rooms at an Embassy Suites a few miles away. The family seems to have reached some reconciliation, a truce cemented by their presence here in Virginia. Brendan and Paddy have been allowed limited access to Tommy. They reported to me that he is being treated well.

But the reporters are not here just for Tommy. Brendan announced over the weekend that half of his 5 million dollars would be going to his little brother. Tommy in turn announced that his half was going to his fallen friend's family. An emotional interview with the widow, Pilar, had followed in which she confessed the struggles her family had endured since the death of her husband by friendly fire. Her tears had thrown into the limelight the treatment of veterans and their families upon returning from overseas. The nation was in an uproar. This has gone beyond a simple sports story. This is a national calamity. Even the President has issued a statement, condemning the past treatment of veterans and promising legislation and outreach programs for the future.

I wait patiently as the line rings, praying someone will answer. A little girl's voice responds on the fifth ring. It takes some coaxing to get her to hand the phone to her father.

"I can't get in." I tell him and briefly relate what is going on.

"Give me a minute. I need to make a call." He hangs up. I am left alone again, contemplating my next move.

My next move finds me in the form of a young Marine standing on an upside down crate. He is bellowing my name.

"Nicole Ryan!" he yells through a megaphone. A hush falls over the crowd momentarily. I push my way through, trying to be polite and ending up just elbowing my way in.

"Miss Ryan?" the man with the megaphone is young, almost a kid. He gives me a stern look, reaches down to shake my hand.

"What's all this about?" I question.

"It's Tommy Conlon," he answers. "He's allowed a half hour to speak with the media. He only wants to speak to you."

I feel pride swell in the pit of my belly and I quickly quell it. It is not a competition. I am here for a greater purpose than getting an exclusive. I nod at the young man, and proceed through the front doors and the security check point. I surrender the contents of my purse to a guard and am led down a series of hallways by the same officer from outside.

"Thanks for coming out and finding me," I tell him, attempting conversation.

"Of course," the response is polite but curt. I am just settling back into silence when the young man turns to me again. "I'm a big fan Miss Ryan. The boys and I, we love Sports Center."

I find myself smiling. This man, for all his seriousness, is just a kid. The thought of young guys like him overseas, fighting our battles, sobers me. I vow to autograph something for him on my way out.

"Here we are, Miss Ryan." He stops in front of a door. He knocks once, pushes it open and sticks his head in. "Hey Tommy! Nicole Ryan is here to see you," he waves me in, gives me one last grin and shuts the door after me.

Tommy Riordan, or Conlon rather, is sitting in the middle of what looks to be some kind of presentation hall. The seats are all empty save for the one he occupies. It looks like a miniature movie theatre. There is an overhead projector and some cushioned folding chairs bolted to the ground. He is in the front row, in uniform, his hair cut back into the classic Jarhead style. He looks every part the Marine, except for his still black and blue face and the sling around his left arm.

"Brendan called. Said you were here. Jeremy got the message to me." He nods his head in the general direction of the door. I assume the young Marine is Jeremy.

"He told me you'll only talk to me." I walk around to the row he is in and sit two seats down.

"Better the devil you know…" he says in his deep scratchy voice. I choose not to dwell on his words for fear of being insulted.

"How have you been?" it has been a week since Sparta.

Tommy looks at me, one eyebrow cocked. Then he glances at his arm and surroundings.

"Right," I admit. "Stupid question."

"Brendan said you came here to help." Tommy adjusts his position in his seat. He looks far too large for the chair. His muscular frame barely fits in the allotted space.

"I did," I confirm.

"So tell me, what's the plan?" he drops his good arm into his lap, gives me his full attention. There's something off about it, though, and my hackles go up.

"To garner public sympathy," I tell him. He smirks.

"How do you plan on doing that?" he is definitely mocking me.

"Excuse me?" I cross my arms over my chest.

"Tell me, Miss Ryan," he drags my name out in a condescending way, "What do you know about the Corps?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "Do you think they give a damn about public opinion?" This time he pauses, driving his point home.

"Tell me, Mr. Conlon," I fire right back, "What do you know about the power of public opinion?" I sit up straighter, size him up. "Not much, obviously. But this isn't my first rodeo. I worked in hard news before this and I can tell you, public opinion can make or break you. Do you know how many bad things happen in a day and get swept under the rug?" his expression makes it clear that he does. "The only time people in charge take action is when the public knows about it and is pissed off. And to get the American public riled up about something, they have to like you. You have the talent to get their attention."

"Then what's the problem?" he asks.

"You need to _keep_ their attention. And you're not a very likeable guy." I tell him.

He snorts, not bothering to argue my point. "And you're going to change that?"

I shrug, "I'm going to try."

"Stop playing the martyr," Conlon shrugs me off, fixes me with that intense stare. "Everyone's after something. You know how many people have been after me lately? Even before Sparta, reporters were at my door, trainers, agents. They're all offering something: fame, women, money. All I had to do was sign here," he stabs his finger into imaginary paper in his outstretched left hand. "promote this, talk to them on air."

"What's your point?" I ask.

"My point is everyone is after something. So don't come up in here, acting like a saint, claiming you're helping me out. You don't know me, you don't know my family, and you've got no reason to care."

I am in shock. No one has ever spoken to me so crassly, not in my whole career of routinely stepping on people's toes. My mouth is literally hanging open as I try to formulate a response that doesn't involve cursing him out.

"Well?" he asks, a cynical smirk twisting his lips.

"I came here because I stood in a crowd watching two brothers beat the living shit out of each other. I came here because when I knocked on your hotel room door, an old, sad man answered it screaming for you." He has the good grace to look somewhat ashamed. I press my advantage. "I came here for answers, because all I see when I look at your family is a giant question mark. I see people who need help." It takes me a moment to realize that I am virtually yelling at him.

"We don't need your pity." He practically growls this at me.

"There's no danger of you having that," I harden my voice like his. "I'm not here to give you that. I'm here because whatever you guys have going on right now is hanging in a very delicate balance. And there's a parking lot out there full of sharks, and they've all scented your blood. They can help you, or they can crucify you. And you need someone who can point them in the right direction."

"And you're going to do that?"

"If you let me." He falls into silence, his eyes fixed on a point on the wall. My anger crumbles just looking at him. He is a sad little boy in a man's body, a puppy who is used to being kicked. On a whim, I lean forward and brush my fingers along the sleeve of his tan shirt. He flinches at the light contact, but doesn't push me away.

"Tommy, everyone needs help some time." I tell him.

A long silence stretches between us. I am losing hope, when finally his head nods almost imperceptibly.

"Ok. What do we do?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: ****Thank you for reading and especially to those who reviewed! **

**If you have a moment, please review this story to let me know if it's worth continuing. Thanks!**

* * *

><p>"He agreed?" Paddy sounds shocked. Even Brendan, stationed on a hotel chair, looks surprised. His wife is perched on the armrest and is the only one not giving me a look of abject astonishment.<p>

"You didn't think he would?" I ask. Their reactions are not reassuring.

"I did." Tess says with finality. Brendan shrugs and Paddy grunts. The Conlon family is one of few words.

"He doesn't want to do time. Or be dishonorably discharged." I explained.

"Still, Tommy doesn't seem like the type to become a spokesperson." Brendan says.

"He won't be doing that much speaking." That was a point Tommy and I enthusiastically agreed on. "Just one big interview. The major networks can fight amongst themselves over who gets it."

"Sounds like there's money in that." Paddy observes. It is a fair point.

"There is." I agree. "But Tommy's already made up his mind to give it to charity. Veteran outreach," I add, when Tess asks which charity.

"So he's agreed to be the face of the cause?" she asks.

"For now." I tell her.

"God," Brendan exhales loudly into his hands. "He's really changed."

"War will do that to a man." Paddy says knowledgably. "No one should have to go through the shit boys go through overseas." His eyes become clouded, some years old demon settling over him. Brendan gives his father a concerned look, reaches for his arm. At the contact Paddy seems to come out of his stupor. He gives his eldest son a nod.

"You're going to coach him?" Brendan asks a moment later.

"Well, not exactly." I go over what Tommy and I agreed on. He will tell an abridged version of his life story to an undetermined reporter. Any statement from him will serve to whip the public into a frenzy. He will not be accusatory, he will not make excuses. Tommy does not strike me as the sort of man who would make them anyway, and it will not buy him sympathy. He will simply tell events as they happened, lend his story to the public discussion of what is to be done. And hopefully, his tale will rally enough sympathy to make positive change, not only in his trial, but in Congress.

"Sounds like a long shot," Paddy says when I finish.

"I have to agree." Brendan says. "I don't know if it will work."

"It will." I say confidently. "But there's something you can do to strengthen it." I take a deep breath, look at Paddy. "You tell your story."

"Why does he need to do that?" Brendan is suddenly defensive, seconds away from leaping out of his chair.

"Not the whole thing," I hasten to say. "Just your time in Vietnam. What it was like coming back."

Brendan speaks. "That's too much, Pop. You don't have to do that."

But Paddy only looks at me. "Will it help, Tommy?"

"Pop—" Brendan tries again. Paddy holds up a hand to silence him.

"Will it?" he repeats.

"It will." I say.

Slowly, Paddy nods. This time Brendan does stand up, anger apparent on his face. His wife reaches for his arm but he evades her.

"I need to talk to you." He grates out. Tess gives me a weary look, but Paddy takes her by the arm.

"Come on, Tess, let's go take the girls to the pool." He shuffles through the adjoining door to the next hotel room over. The sounds of _Dora the Explorer_ can be heard as they leave the room. Tess casts a look at me over her shoulder, than a sterner look at her husband. He ignores it.

"Why are you here?" Brendan asks me before the door is even closed.

Here we go again. These questions are working my nerves. "Tommy asked the same thing," I tell him.

"What'd you tell him?" I want to laugh at the similarities in the brothers' posturing. Brendan's brow furrows in exactly the same manner as Tommy's and they even cross their arms the same way.

"To help. Like you asked me to." I emphasize.

"You're prying too much." He tells me.

"How the hell am I supposed to know that?" it is my turn to be angry. Working with these people is like skating on thin ice. They are an emotional tilt-a-whirl. "You guys haven't given me any back story. How am I supposed to know what's too sensitive to talk about?"

There is a moment of silence as Brendan contemplates this. "You have a point." He admits. He rubs his palm along his brow, sighs. "You might have noticed by now that my family is kind of…" he trails off.

"Dysfunctional?" I readily supply.

"Yeah," he chuckles bitterly. "You could say that."

"I'm not asking for details." I tell him. "Just the overview."

Brendan continues laughing. "All right. You asked." He drops back into his chair. "Don't say you didn't ask," he warns me. He takes a deep breath. And then he begins to speak.

His voice is deadpan, much like his brother's was, like he is reading to me from a script. He starts at the literal beginning. He tells me how his parents met. His dad had come back from several tours in Vietnam. His mom had just graduated high school. They met, got pregnant, got married, gave birth to him. Two years later, Tommy came around. He mentions never really knowing a stable environment. His father was always drunk, his mom routinely war sunglasses, even in the house, to hide her bruises. He tells me how Tommy and him used to run from it all, when their parents started yelling. He says they would flee to a park, or the attic and wait it out. He says that when they were very little, Tommy used to cry. He describes rocking his brother, just wishing it would stop.

He says there were times where things were almost good. He remembers a vacation to a beach, a few happy days. He remembers his dad teaching him the basics of wrestling. How those brief, sober moments with his father mark the happiest in his childhood. How Tommy joined in one day, what a natural talent he was. How thrilled Paddy was to have such a gifted protégé. How Tommy became the center of their father's attention and how he started focusing on other things, school, football, grades, Tess. How he tried to not begrudge Tommy his success. How they began to grow apart, even before the split.

He begins to tear up. I wait with baited breath, not knowing what to say, not wanting to break the silence.

"Pop, he got out of control one night. More so than usual," Brendan is saying. "Ma, she tried to calm him down like always, but…" his sobs choke him. I feel as though I cannot breathe. "Anyway," he says after a moment. "Tommy and I stayed up all night. Tommy was talking about running, about stopping Pop next time he lost control. I don't remember what I said." He wipes his eyes, straightens up. "The next morning, I went to work at this little corner shop. Tommy tried to get me to stay home, but I went anyway. I was saving up for school." He adds, trying to justify himself. I just nod.

"I got home and they were gone. Pop had a fit. Tore the house up. We figured they'd be back, but…" Brendan breaks off. His body seems to deflate, as though all the energy has gone out of him.

"I was 16." He says. "Tommy was 14."

"And you didn't see him again?" I don't recognize my own voice. It is high pitched, like a squeak. I realize to my horror that I have begun to cry. I hastily wipe my tears.

"Not until Sparta." Brendan turns his head to the window, "He said I abandoned him. Left him for Tess." His chin trembles.

"Brendan, you were just a kid," I feel the urge to comfort him, but he is not having it.

"I was old enough. I chose Tess over my little brother. Over my mom. She died, you know? Tommy was the only one there to bury her. He took off to the Marines." He is openly crying now, not even trying to disguise the streams of salt tears flowing over his battered cheeks.

"I never got to say goodbye. Not to him. Not to mom. I keep thinking, if I had just left with them, maybe—"

"You can't think like that. Think of your family, your daughters. They never would have been here if you'd left." I picture the cherubic little girls down at the swimming pool, the happiness that is written all over Brendan's face when he looks at them. I think of Paddy, the broken old man. I cannot reconcile the two versions of him in my head. He is so calm now, so sad. He only lights up when his granddaughters or his son are interacting with him. Pieces click into place in my mind. I understand Tommy's anger, Brendan's dedication to his family.

"I know," Brendan says. "I know. It's just I still feel guilty." He wipes his face. "I had Tess, you know? Even when I didn't have Pop, Tess was there. And Tommy…." He shakes his head back and forth, like he is trying to swat away a bug, "he had no one."

I wish I had some words of comfort. Instead, I say the only thing I can.

"It's going to be ok, you know?"

He laughs, but there is no mirth in the sound. "Is it?"

"It's going to take work. But you guys are going to make it." I nod feverously. "It might take some therapy though." I do not know what compels me to joke, but Brendan smiles genuinely.

"I'm rich now. So we can afford it." His smile widens. He begins to laugh. It is a rusty sound, like his throat is not used to the motion.

"See? Silver lining to every cloud." We are both laughing now. I rush for the bathroom, still in giggles. I wet a washcloth for myself, then one for Brendan. He catches it as I toss it to him.

"Thanks," he buries his face in the fabric. "Nicole?" he asks me suddenly.

"Yeah?" I'm meticulously trying to wipe away the mascara that has run down my cheeks.

"You're an all right person, you know?" he says.

It is the closest thing I have gotten to a compliment from any of the Conlons. I smile.

"You guys are too."

This time, Brendan looks as though he believes me.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: ****Thank you for reading and especially to those who reviewed! **

**If you have a moment, please review this story to let me know if it's worth continuing. Thanks!**

* * *

><p>"Do you even know how to smile?" My patience is at the end of its rope.<p>

Tommy glowers back at me. "It's been known to happen."

"I bet you have a beautiful smile," I feel like a mother trying to convince a stubborn toddler to eat his peas.

His glower deepens. I sigh.

"These aren't school pictures. I don't smile when I don't want to." He leans back further into his chair.

"So you don't smile," I tick off on my fingers, "and you don't tell jokes."

"I'm not really in the mood for jokes. It's been a bad couple of weeks." He delivers this line so seriously, that I start to feel guilty. Then the corner of his mouth twitches ever so slightly.

"Oh my gosh, that was almost it!" I am grinning like a fool now.

"You do what you say you can and you might see a few more." He scratches the back of his head with his good hand. The other is still confined to a sling, though he insists it's fine.

"Well, that's some serious motivation then."

Tommy goes back to staring out of the window. On top of being surly and stubborn, he has the attention span of a gold fish. I stare patiently at him like a teacher waiting for the class to calm down. He shows no sign that he notices me. His expression is relaxed and I'm struck by how young he is. In this rare quiet moment, his face is unlined and he actually looks content.

"Tommy." He jerks his attention back to me. His chair rocks for a moment and he loses balances. I am treated to another view of him out of his element as he rocks wildly. I begin to laugh at the thought that if his fans saw him now, he would not look anything like the killer they are used to watching in the cage.

He gives me a reproachful look as I laugh at his predicament. Rolling my eyes, I watch him wiggle a bit more. I reach out with a foot and catch the chair, leaning it even further back.

"What are you doing?" he asks. I delight in his rare moment of uncertainty.

"Ask for help." I cannot resist the urge to teach a small lesson.

"What?" he repeats. He tries to swing his weight forward but I kick the chair again, sending him back.

"Ask for help, Tommy."

He looks as though he wants to curse me out. When his usual glare does not intimidate me into backing down, he considers his options.

"Fine," he clips out. "Miss Ryan, would you do me the favor of lowering my chair?" he puts on a fake British accent that surprises me.

"Certainly, Mr. Conlon." I lower him to the ground.

"You're lucky you're a woman." He says to me with no real venom.

"Why? You going to hit me?" I mean it as a joke but his mood turns extremely serious.

"Never." His gray eyes bore into me. I feel suddenly uncomfortable. I have to remember that Tommy is not a person with a regular upbringing. His reality is full of what have only been my nightmares. I want to rectify my mistake. He has gone back to staring out of the window. An idea strikes me.

"Come on." I stand up, pat his knee. He looks at me like I am crazy.

"What?"

"When's the last time you were outside?" I ask him. He does not answer. "Come on," I repeat, seizing his arm and wrenching him up. Or at least, I attempt to pull him up. He weighs what seems like a ton. Sighing, he drops his legs to the floor and pushes himself to standing.

"You're crazy, you know that?" it is less of a question and more of a statement of fact.

I roll my eyes again and lead him to the door. I poke my head out. Jeremy is stationed there.

"Miss Ryan?" he asks politely.

"Is there a place outside we can sit?" Jeremy looks surprised, but recovers quickly.

"Give me a second, Miss Ryan. I'll ask."

Ten minutes later and Tommy and I are seated in the grass in a courtyard of the complex. A few Marines walk by and look curiously at us. Tommy looks embarrassed; his neck and ears have gone scarlet. I decide not to dwell on it. After all, he has never seemed comfortable with attention.

"Have you decided who you want to talk to?" I bring his attention back to matters at hand.

"We look like we're having a damn picnic out here," he mumbles.

"You'd rather be back in the room?" he is irritating me again.

"No," he looks like a toddler throwing a tantrum. "It's just-"

"You're embarrassed to be seen with me," I supply, resisting the urge to roll my eyes.

"We look like a couple," He blurts out. His face flushes this time.

I have no response for this. We have only interacted a few times and I do not think anyone looking in on us would harbor any delusions of romantic feelings. Still, I feel like I need to defuse the situation.

"You could do worse," I tease.

He raises his eyebrows in what I guess could be agreement and flops backwards into the grass. I get the sense that he does not want to look at me.

"You can pick the reporter," he mumbles.

"Are you going to make me do everything?" I am half-joking, half-exasperated.

"You're the expert," He cranes his neck up to look at me.

"You're the one who has everything on the line," I need him to understand the seriousness of the situation.

"I've got nothing on the line," He tells me. "I don't have family, a girl, money. Nothing. It doesn't matter what happens to me."

This pity party has got to stop. Since violence seems to be the only thing he understands, I lean down and smack him on the top of his head. I do not use enough force to do any real damage, but he bolts up like a pop tart.

"You've got a family." I say, "They're sitting in a hotel, ten minutes away, ringing their hands and stressing about what's going to happen to you," I look him dead in the eye.

He seems to contemplate this for a moment.

"No one from Fox news." He says finally. "Anyone else is fine."

Now we are getting somewhere. "You don't have a favorite?"

"Anderson Cooper." He says at length. "If he wants to." He sounds boyishly uncertain for a moment, as though he has no idea how famous he has become over the last the last few weeks. "He seems to get it right more than the rest," His trademark cynicism creeps back into his tone.

He flops back to a lying position, seemingly exhausted by the decision making process.

"I'm sure he'd be happy to interview you," I make a note to call Gavin and see if he can contact Cooper's camp.

Tommy grunts.

"Do you have a daily word quota?" I ask him. "Does it physically hurt you to communicate?"

"I don't have anything to say," he tells me.

"I think you've got plenty to say."

"You don't know me."

"I'm a journalist. It's my job to read people."

"Yeah?" he challenges. "Read me."

It's the question I'd been praying he would ask. "You've got a hard exterior. Obviously," I gesture to all of him, "But you're not as cynical as you want people to believe. You're smarter than you put out there, you're more emotional than you put out, and you're unfailingly polite, even when you're trying to be rude," He looks skeptical. "You're all, yes ma'mm, no sir, thank you," he begins to flush again. "You hold doors."

"I pull out chairs too," he adds. This time he smiles genuinely. I wish I had a camera with me to capture the moment. Fearless Tommy Conlon, lying in the grass and smiling.

"What else do you do?" I ask.

Tommy smirks, but it is not the mean twist of his lips I am used to seeing. In fact, he looks cocky. It occurs to me that my question could be interpreted as flirting. I feel a blush creeping into my cheeks. Thank God I have dark skin. He might not see it.

"You want me to tell you my deepest darkest secrets. You want me to get on television and tell the world my story, invite them into my problems. But you don't tell me anything about yourself." He regards me with a titled head. I have to admit he has a point.

"What do you want to know?" I am assuming a question about my middle name, my favorite color, or where I am from will come up.

"Why do you care so much, about what happens to me?" he asks.

"We've been over this."

"Nah." He sits up and stares me down. "I get that you see my family is a fucking train wreck. I get that you want to help. But why?" at my look of confusion, he clarifies. "What makes you care about other people? Most people will step over anyone to get where they're going. So why do you stop and actually look at the shit around you?"

His question stops me in my tracks. "I guess….because everyone needs help. And not everyone gets it," it is the simplest way I can put it.

"Someone helped you out," It is a statement, not a question.

"Yeah," I am praying he does not ask me to expand on that. The look he gives me though makes it clear he is expecting me to continue. "When I was a kid, my dad was diagnosed with cancer. My mom had to take care of him for a whole year. My grandma stepped up, raised me and my three brothers."

"They're older than you?" he bypasses the meat of the story to ask about my siblings.

"Yes."

"They're athletic guys?"

"Yes."

"That explains a lot," His statement seems to cover more than just my love of sports. "So why do you joke every time something gets uncomfortable?"

This question honestly perplexes me. "No I don't."

"We've known each other, what, two weeks?" he asks. I nod. "Every time something gets even a little tense, you make a joke." When I still look skeptical, he provides an example. "I like cats?" he quotes, incredulous.

Suddenly, and despite the situation, we are both laughing in the grass. He has a nice laugh, not the mocking kind, but the kind where someone is so genuinely happy, you cannot help but to be happy too.

"That's how my brothers and I deal with things. We just make jokes. Just like your family stops talking."

He nods, understanding. He allows me to steer our conversation back on course as we plan to meet for his interview two days from now. His trial is scheduled for next week.

"You know, they're talking about charging me with desertion." He says suddenly. Even with my limited knowledge, I know that this is a bad thing. "The penalties are a lot worse for that." He continues.

"How much worse?" as it stands, I'm thinking the worst that could happen is some limited prison time, a fine and a dishonorable discharge.

"They can send me back." His eyes are fixed on the sky now, his thoughts far away. "I don't want to go back," This admission is so quiet I can barely hear it.

"I don't want you to go back either," I tell him. He nods at me.

As I prepare to leave a half hour later, the two of us shuffle down the hall together. The guards are back. One of them hands me my belongings as two others prepare to escort Tommy down the hall to where he is being held.

"Your dad," he says suddenly as we part. "Is he ok?"

I am shocked, even touched, that he asks. "Yeah." I tell him. "He's ok now."

Tommy grins at me. If the guards are confused by our exchange, they do not show it. We part ways with me feeling better than I have for days.

I think that Tommy Conlon and I have finally reached an understanding.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: ****Thank you for reading and especially to those who reviewed! **

**If I haven't thanked you personally, please know that I appreciate all of your feedback! Thanks so much!**

* * *

><p>"Anderson Cooper?" Tess is practically bouncing up and down.<p>

"He confirmed. Tommy's going to be interviewed live tonight." I say.

We are seated in the back of a little ma and pop Italian restaurant. Tess and Brendan are on one side of the table, Paddy and I are on the other. The two girls are sandwiched, one on each side, between the adults, coloring happily and ignoring us.

"Is he coming here?" Tess questions again. She is smiling brightly. Her husband regards her curiously.

"No. It's going to be via satellite. But he's invited Paddy and Brendan to appear on his talk show later this week." The men react with indifference, but Tess nearly upends the table.

"You guys are going to meet the Silver Fox!" she is practically squealing.

Brendan shakes her head. He turns to his oldest daughter. "Honey, remind me not to let mommy watch the news anymore." He taps the top of her brunette head.

"Ok, daddy," She does not even bother to look up at him, but focuses on coloring in her drawing of a red flower.

"Can we see him before the interview?" Paddy asks. Before I can answer, his youngest granddaughter nudges him.

"Can you draw a house?" she asks, shoving her brown crayon into his hand. Paddy looks bemused for a moment. Brendan smiles.

"Better draw a house, Pop. The little lady doesn't like to be kept waiting."

The table is held captive for a moment as Paddy shakily traces the outlines of a square with a triangle on top onto the paper tablecloth. His granddaughter swoops in, adding a green line for grass. I realize that I am intruding on an intimate family moment of sorts. I feel out of place.

The moment is broken by the waitress asking for our order. It takes Paddy a moment to recover. He stutters as he moves to his menu. Brendan kindly suggests the lasagna and Paddy agrees, relief clear on his face.

What is this family that is so shaken up by the simplest moments of closeness? Brandon's words about Paddy in the past echo in my mind. I choose not to focus on them and replace the image with one of Paddy coloring with his granddaughter.

Ten minutes of strained talking later and our food is brought out. The smell of marinara, alfredo and garlic set my mouth to watering. Conversation lulls as we eat, and for once, I am glad that the Conlons are not a talkative bunch. A few minutes in though, Tess goes back to berating me on what questions Cooper will ask and whether or not they are all traveling to New York for his talk show.

"Babe," Brendan reminds her gently, "It's not a vacation. This is for Tommy."

Tess looks shell-shocked. "Sorry," the mood changes as she studies her food. I feel a moment of companionship with her. Though she has been part of this whole saga for more than a decade, we are both outsiders trying to deal with the shambles that are the Conlon family life. Brendan rubs her arm soothingly and pulls her to him. I look away, allowing them a private moment.

My phone conveniently chooses this moment to ring. I answer it without looking at the screen, happy for an excuse to step outside.

"Where are you?" it takes a moment to place the voice, but then it hits me.

"With your family having lunch." I lean against the brick wall of the restaurant, attempting to stand in the shade. The heat is sweltering and the humidity is unforgiving. My hair is beginning to rebel out of its straight style and revert back to its natural curls.

"How's that going?" his tone makes it clear that he does not suspect it is going well.

"Fine." I say honestly. "You're sister-in-law is really excited about your upcoming interview."

Tommy grunts. "Good for her."

"She's just trying to help," I feel a need to defend Tess.

"Yeah. Sorry," he sounds genuine. "Old habits, you know?" I do not know. I am not sure I want to.

"They want to all see you before you interview." The silence runs so long that I begin to suspect that my phone has dropped the call. Just as I pull it away from my ear to check, Tommy speaks.

"All at once?" he sounds worried. It occurs to me that the Conlons have probably never been in a room together in a very long time.

"I'm guessing so," I say.

"And you're coming?" he asks.

"If you want me there. I think you're well enough prepared," There is no point in over- prepping him; Tommy is going to say whatever he feels like, my opinions be damned.

"Yeah. I mean, it would be nice if you came." It is hard to tell over the phone, but he sounds nervous. He blurts the whole sentence in one breath, like it is one very long word.

I weigh my options for a moment. I was looking forward to an actual night off tonight, an opportunity to relax in my room without people in it berating me. I also have a bikini in my bag screaming for a chance to get out. It occurs to me though, that I will still spend every second before 7:15 worrying about the interview and every moment after it ends dissecting it.

"I'll be there," I say.

True to my word, I am stationed in the hallway outside of a conference room at a quarter until 7. Tommy has been in the room with his family for the past 45 minutes. I declined to come in, allowing them whatever small measure of privacy I can give them.

My heels are already pinching my toes and my suit is too tight to be really comfortable. I tug the pencil skirt down and shift my weight. I have to focus on something to alleviate my nervousness. My distraction comes around the corner in the form of Jeremy.

"Hi Miss Ryan," he greets me like a student would greet their kindergarten teacher. I have a feeling he has developed a little crush. I also have a feeling that Jeremy's influence has made things easier as far as me having access to Tommy.

"It's a madhouse in there," he tells me conversationally, "I don't see how you do that every day."

"It's easier than boot camp," I say. He laughs.

"For you maybe. Tommy looks like a fish out of water." He shakes his head. "The guy who tried to clip the microphone to his shirt nearly pissed himself when Tommy swatted him away."

My mind readily supplies a mental image to accompany that story. I join Jeremy in shaking my head.

"His family is still in there?" I ask.

"Yes." Jeremy looks uncomfortable. "It's a little…tense."

I would imagine so. I try to smooth the situation over though. "Well, they have a lot of hopes riding on this." He nods knowledgeably.

"This could change a lot, you know?" Jeremy says. I prompt him for clarification. "Depending on how this goes, it can change what being over there is like." Jeremy gets that same thousand yard stare that both Paddy and Tommy get when talking about war.

"How many tours have you been on?" I ask him.

"Two."

"And you're how old?"

"22," He answers.

This hangs there in the air between us. Tommy has more than just his family's hopes pinned on him. Our conversation ends as the door between us opens.

"Nicole," Tess leads her daughters out of the room by the hand. "I think Tommy wants to see you."

"Brendan and Paddy are still with him?" I ask. She shakes her head.

"They're watching from the control room. I'm going to take the girls back to the hotel. Hopefully I'll make it in time to see it." I check my watch. It's 6:55. I have five, maybe ten, minutes before a producer is going to shove everyone out of the room.

"I'll see you when I get back," I tell her. She just smiles.

"You better go," Jeremy says as the three ladies head home.

I want to say something more to him, but the moment is lost. I offer a weak smile and head through the door.

Studio lights are plugged into every outlet, bathing the room in a harsh white light. Some intern is still fiddling with reflectors, trying to get the perfect shadowing on Tommy's face. He is seated in a simple wooden chair, looking completely uninvolved with what goes on around him. He is wearing an olive shirt that looks like if he so much as breathes too deeply it might simply just explode off of him. A young woman is dancing nervously around him, brandishing a wireless microphone.

"Mr. Conlon, I just need to clip this onto the front of your shirt," she is trying to keep her voice steady as she attempts to maneuver around his injured shoulder. I notice that he is not wearing his sling.

Tommy spots me. He is not making any attempt to make this poor girl's job any easier. She looks to be on the verge of tears.

"I'll do it." I tell her. She looks relieved. I coax the device out of her hand and turn to Tommy with my no-nonsense stare. He does not resist as I clip the mic to the collar of his shirt. I have performed this lackluster task countless time, but I am struck by the awkwardness of it now. His skin feels impossibly hot as I wind the cord down the front of his shirt. I am aware that Tommy is staring hard at me.

I try to be gentle near his shoulder, but I am forced to pull the cord, disrupting his arm. He does not so much as wince, but continues following my actions with his eyes. After what seems like an eternity, I get the microphone to the bottom of his shirt. I release the breath I did not realize I was holding. I feel flushed, an irrational reaction. I glance around, fearful that someone has noticed. Everyone is still busy with their own tasks.

"You have to stick it in your back pocket," I tell him. My voice cracks a bit.

"You don't want to do that for me too?" I can't tell if he's joking or not.

"I think you can handle it," I fidget with my clothing as he follows my instructions. I am somehow too nervous to look him in the eye.

"3 minutes till start!" the cameraman yells to no one in particular. The madness around us continues.

"Are you ready?" the question is almost pointless now; he is going on in 15 minutes whether he wants to or not.

"As I'm ever going to be." He wipes his face. I have realized that this motion is his only outward sign of nervousness.

"You'll be great," The words come out rushed. I try again. "They already like you."

"You said I'm not that likeable," He tries to sound light, as if it does not bother him. I feel bad for ever telling him that.

"I've changed my position," I tell him confidently. "You just take a while to get to know."

"So you think they're going to know me in a five minute interview?" he is talking quietly, making his voice sound like a rumble. I have to kneel down in front of him just to hear what he is saying.

"Be yourself," I tell him. "Don't stress over it. Answer the questions honestly. It'll be over before you know it."

He jerks his head in a nod. "All right."

"And hey," I lightly touch his wrist to bring his attention back to me. "If all else fails, do that strong, silent, broody thing. You're good at that."

He graces me with another genuine smile. He flips his arm over and brushes his fingers along the palm of my hand.

"All right people, clear the set!" the cameraman is yelling again. He is clearly addressing me.

"Give her a second, all right?" Tommy responds. The authority with which he says this daunts the man into a temporary silence.

"You're going to be fine," I say. I begin to push myself back to standing. "I'll be watching with your brother and dad."

He nods again and takes a deep breath, sucking his teeth. As I begin to move my hand, he catches it in his broad grip. For a moment, he traces the skin on my hand with his thumb, running the callused surface over palm. The motion is not consistent with what I know of him at all; it is gentle, almost tentative. I am struck by the thought that I am holding the hand that beat some of the world's toughest men into unconsciousness, a hand that has likely killed. All at once he lets go. The moment is over as suddenly as it begins.

I retreat to the control room, ignoring the glare of Mr. Uptight-Cameraman, and seat myself next to Paddy. The two men barely glance my way. Their eyes are fixed firmly on the opening of _Anderson Cooper: 360_.

In his perfect diction, I hear Anderson Cooper announce the guests on the show. At the name "Tommy Conlon", everyone in the room seems to hold their breath.

"Please," I pray silently, "please God, let this go well."

I realize that I have involuntarily raised the hand Tommy was holding to my cheek. I press it against my face, drawing some comfort in the motion. I focus on the lingering sensations his fingers caused, willing myself to calm down.

"Here we go," Paddy rumbles out from my right side.

I do not respond. I am too busy focusing on why my heart is beating so quickly.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: ****Thank you for reading and especially to those who reviewed! **

**If I haven't thanked you personally, please know that I appreciate all of your feedback! Thanks so much!**

* * *

><p>I feel dizzy with relief. I am practically slumped over in my chair, devoid of all ladylike manners. It is as if I was carrying a yolk around my neck for the past week and someone has finally lifted it off. I need a massage, a vacation, or at very least a drink. I am seconds away from suggesting it when I remember that there is a recovering alcoholic in the room.<p>

Looks like I will be drinking alone tonight.

Still, after so much stress, the idea has appeal.

Brendan is seated to my left, his head practically in his lap, a cell phone pressed to his ear.

"Did you see it, baby?" he is asking into the receiver. His face is split virtually down the middle with a huge grin. "I know," he is saying. "He did great."

Paddy is ringing his newsboy cap in his hands. It is probably bent completely out of shape by now. He does not seem like he cares at all. He is shuffling around, burning off nervous energy.

"Tommy did it," he says to no one in particular.

I feel a sudden stab of affection for him.

"Your boy did good," I pat his back.

"It'll be our turn next pop." Brendan hangs up his phone. He still looks elated.

"You'll coach us too?" Paddy asks, a tone of desperation in his voice.

"Of course," if my smile does not quite reach my eyes, no one notices. Paddy and Brendan are happily chatting away. I feel exhausted. The idea of flopping into bed or taking a long hot bath are so appealing right now, I would happily pay for the privilege.

The two men hurry out of the door, shouting their thanks back to me. I know they are going to talk to Tommy. I do not bother following. Instead, I kick my shoes off in the blessedly empty room, throw my feet up on the chair next to me and rest my eyes.

Despite my attempt to relax, I begin pulling apart Tommy's interview in my mind. The first 15 minutes of the show were hell; my stomach was clenched in knots, my muscles balled tight. Every commercial break felt like an eternity, but finally, Tommy's interview arrived.

As he was introduced, the show cut to a split screen with the satellite image of Tommy on the left and the impeccable Anderson Cooper on the right. Tommy looked as unaffected as ever, though I was pleased to see he had straightened up in his chair. Anderson started off with the basics, a short explanation as to who Tommy was, and a brief video montage of his fights during Sparta. Then the questions began. His camp had emailed a list of nearly 50 potential questions that might be asked. But ultimately, it was the reporter's choice. Cooper did not disappoint.

"Mr. Conlon," he had begun. Tommy interrupted.

"Tommy is fine, sir," he said.

"Tommy then," Cooper looked amused but quickly sobered. "Tell us what led to your decision to desert?"

There was a silence where I feared that Tommy would not answer. Then he began.

"When you're over there, the Corp, they become your brothers." He shifted slightly in his chair, "You live with those people, you eat with those people, you even kill with them. They're you're family. And in my case, you know, that was almost literally true. I'd spent years with them. And to see them get wiped out, I was prepared for that. We were ready for the possibility that an enemy might pop out, kill us at anytime. That a bomb might go off, a suicide bomber might take us out." He trailed off for a moment, "But we weren't ready for that. We weren't trained for that, you know?"

"You are talking about the incident with the friendly fire?" Anderson prompted him to continue.

"Yeah. It was a pretty normal day. We thought we were in the clear. We were ready to head back to base, and it started. Bombs raining down everywhere, bullets. We could see the planes, we knew they were American. We were waving our flags. Guys that I knew for years were falling around me, blood everywhere." He broke off again, licked his lips. "And Manny and I, we were running, screaming, and then it happened. Bullets went right through him. He fell, hit me and we both went down. We were the last two. The planes left, but it wasn't over. Manny was bleeding, coughing, asking for his wife." Tommy's eyes were shiny. He focused on a place on the ground. Anderson gave him a second to get himself together. "What do you tell your friend," Tommy asked, "when he's screaming for his family and you're in the middle of some desert, trying to stop him from bleeding with just your hands? How do you sleep at night when everyone's dead, and just you survived? When you have to walk out of the desert and leave the bodies of your friends out in the sun for the birds? And what do you tell yourself when the people who did that are supposed to be your brothers?"

Anderson did not have an answer. "We are being told that the Marines are launching an investigation into how it happened."

"Doesn't bring anyone back," Tommy shrugged. "I'm not making excuses for what I did. I deserted. It was wrong and I know that. I take responsibility. But they need to, too." Tommy looked into the camera. "Those families? They're owed an explanation. A real one, not some impersonal apology note and some battered dog tags."

Just thinking about his words gives me chills. When the interview ended, the whole room was silent. The moment the camera was off though, the crew in the room with Tommy gave him a round of applause that we could hear through the wall. My phone is still exploding with text messages, some no doubt from Gavin and maybe a few from my producer. I will answer them later. I just need a moment.

There had only been enough time for one question. Tommy had answered it with the brutal honestly I expected, but also a vulnerability I thought he would try his hardest to hide. It is a side I have only been privileged enough to get glimpses of, and he just put it on display for the whole country. I will need to get the tape of that interview. I make a mental note to email Cooper's people for it. But it can wait until morning.

I resign myself to a few minutes more work. I put my uncomfortable shoes back on and totter back next door. The crew is packing up lights and cables and dragging them back outside to their truck. I slide in past them. One lone man remains, Mr. Uppity-Cameraman, his camera rolling and pointed at something in the middle of the room. I slowly approach and peak behind him.

What I see nearly floors me. Paddy and his sons are locked into what could only be described as the manliest group hug I have ever seen. I do not know what brought it on, but I feel incredibly humbled to just be witnessing it. Tommy is in the middle, sandwiched between his big brother and his father. I cannot be sure, but I think they might be crying. Even the cameraman seems to realize that this is a private family moment. He switches off his camera and slowly begins to back out of the room. He throws me a final look over his shoulder as he leaves, giving me a respectful nod. The door shuts behind him and I am left alone with the Conlon men. I contemplate following the CNN crew out, but Paddy calls me name.

"Nicole," he gestures wildly towards me, beckoning me towards them. I shake my head, but then Brendan joins in. I approach slowly, the way someone might approach a wild animal.

All at once I am being sucked in, like their hug is a black hole. It is dark and I cannot tell one person from the other. I reach around tentatively, grasping an arm and someone else's back. The smells of Old Spice deodorant and the scent of cologne I cannot quite place overwhelm my senses. I am trapped between three men that I did not even know knew how to hug or even express emotion.

"I have to get back," Brendan pulls away first. "Tess and the girls are waiting for me." He looks seconds away from crying. "But we'll see you tomorrow, before we leave, all right Tommy?" He looks at his little brother, their arms still around one another.

"See you tomorrow." Tommy pulls him in for one last hug. The two stare at one another for a long moment.

"Pop?" Brendan says finally. Paddy nods, embraces his youngest son and then heads out of the door with his eldest.

"See you back at the hotel, Nicole." Brendan calls as they leave.

The door swings shut and it is just Tommy and I.

"You did really well, Tommy," I tell him. We are standing alone in the room, facing each other.

"Yeah, that's what Brendan and Pop said." He looks uncomfortable with the praise, but happy.

"I'm proud of you," I say honestly. He smiles, looking so boyish that I feel my heart swell.

His eyes are a little puffy around the edges. I can see faint tear stains cutting down his cheeks. That he can find a reason to smile at all, especially with his trial impending, moves me. Without thinking I lean forward and wrap my arms around him. I can feel the muscles in his back flex under my palms as he moves his right arm. His left arm, still sore, hangs loosely at our sides, but the right encircles me tightly. His hand grasps my waist. I press my face into the warm cotton of his shirt, feeling the soft texture against my cheek. His chin comes to rest on my shoulder and he leans down, burying his face in my hair. I vaguely reflect that washing it this morning was an excellent idea.

We stay locked like this for a few moments, just basking in the silence. I can hear his heartbeat; it pounds a strong, steady rhythm beneath my cheek. After all he has been through, he is alive, and for the first time since we met, he looks like he realizes it.

"Thank you," his voice is so soft it startles me. His mouth is pressed near my ear. I can feel the slight pressure of his lips on the sensitive skin there.

"Of course." I nod against his chest.

"And for helping Pop too. And Brendan."

I continue to nod. I am feeling overemotional. If I do not get control soon, I will be sobbing into his shirt. Pulling myself together, I finally disengage from his embrace. He allows me to step back, but keeps a light grip on my waist.

"Your trial is Monday." I know that he is aware of this, but I need to say something.

"Pop and Brendan are going to be in New York for that show." He says. It is clear that he is anxious about this.

"I'll be here." I tell him.

"They're not going to let me see you, after tonight." He swallows hard. "They're only allowing immediate family tomorrow, and then no one." He has a weekend of hellish anticipation ahead of him.

"But after the trial," I am trying to sound confident, but a sense of panic is snaking its way into me, "I'll see you."

"If you're still here." When I look a bit affronted, he clarifies. "I mean, depending on how the trial goes, I might be free to walk or…"

"I'll see you Monday," I say. My hand slides down to his at my waist. I give it a firm squeeze. "Right after your trial ends."

"All right," he is trying to hide his smile.

"Ah ha!" I triumphantly gesture with my free hand, "That's two smiles in one day."

He tries to coax his face back to indifference but fails miserably.

"It's a special occasion," he says seriously but the grin remains.

"I told you your smile would be beautiful," I mean to sound teasing but I actually mean it. It is not very conventional; his teeth are not perfectly straight, lending his grin a lopsided tilt. But it is uniquely his. I will have to keep in contact with him and find ways to bait him for his smile more often.

Tommy blushes again. His modesty never fails to surprise me. He looks down at the floor, shifting his grip around my waist. My skin seems to tingle at his touch. I suddenly become aware that if someone were to walk in on us now, our behavior would certainly not look professional. Perhaps Tommy comes to this realization as well because he is looking at me hard, his ears still tinged pink.

He unexpectedly leans forward while simultaneously jerking my hips toward him. His lips come crashing down on mine. I freeze up, mentally weighing the pros and cons of kissing him back. Certainly the action would be unprofessional, but we have been slowly crossing that line anyway over the past few days. Besides, I am not even working, so it is not a conflict of interest.

The most important point, however, is that I _want_ to kiss him. So for once, I stop thinking and just go with it.

The kiss is relatively tame, a chaste, closed mouth affair. But just the feeling of his lips, so warm and firm, makes me want more. I am tempted to pull him closer to me but the sound of loud footsteps coming down the hall stops me. We jump apart with only a second to spare. Jeremy has come bursting through the door with a few other Marines in tow. If they notice anything unusual they do not comment. In fact, I might as well be invisible; they crowd around Tommy. I take the opportunity to step back and compose myself. It was just a kiss after all, but my breathing is labored and I feel as though I have run a mile. Tommy looks more put together than I am, but I suppose he is more adapt at disguising his emotions.

"Do you need someone to escort you out, Miss Ryan?" a blonde Marine is asking politely.

I know an invitation to leave when I hear one.

"I'll be fine, thank you." I have to marvel at my own ability to keep my voice even.

"I'll see you Monday," Tommy tells me. He sounds so casual.

"Monday," I confirm.

I am still shaking as I walk outside to my car.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: ****Thank you for reading and especially to those who reviewed! **

**If I haven't thanked you personally, please know that I appreciate all of your feedback! Thanks so much!**

* * *

><p>I am talking a mile a minute as the elevator descends to the lobby.<p>

"Just stay calm and be honest. Lying is the worst thing you can do. You can fact check anything these days. Tell things the way they happened. You can omit details, but don't fabricate them." Brendan and Paddy are nodding at me. Tess also hangs on my every word.

"Let your personality show. Don't be afraid to laugh if something's funny. If something makes you emotional, pause, let it sink in. Don't let him bully you into giving more details than you want to give." I continue.

"Got it." Brendan's tone is all business. I am willing to bet this is what he sounds like when he teaches. He bends down and fusses with his daughters' suitcase. The two little girls look anxious beyond belief. They are positively buzzing with energy. Tess told them last night that they were going to New York. They are too young to see it as anything but a vacation. I convinced Brendan to stay and sightsee after the show. They won't have access to Tommy anyway, and it might alleviate some of the anxiety.

"You'll be watching?" Paddy asks.

"Not until it airs on Monday," I remind him kindly. "But please call me and let me know how it goes."

He just nods. They are not even out of Virginia yet and Paddy looks nervous. The elevator dings and we pile out. We're walking quickly through the lobby. They have a flight to catch in 45 minutes. Brendan scoops up his eldest daughter and her suitcase. Tess holds the youngest and Paddy has the rest of the bags. I accompany them to the front drive. A cab is already waiting.

"Let us know, please, if Tommy contacts you." Tess says out of the window of the taxi van. I agree.

"If you can get a message to him, tell him that—" Brendan starts. The cab is already pulling away from the curb. He breaks off his sentence, but I have an idea of what he might want me to say.

"I will." I promise. "Don't be nervous. Anderson's a nice guy. And enjoy yourself." The girls cheer happily from the van, but Brendan still looks worried.

The Conlon family waves at me when their cab speeds away from the curb. I am left standing on the corner, waving back.

Finally, a moment alone. I contemplate what I should do with my time and come up with nothing. I suppose I could phone my parents, check in on my brothers. I have probably got a stack of emails flooding my inbox and some texts and calls need returning. I contemplate this for a minute before I turn around, take the elevator to my room and throw on my bathing suit.

If I have to work, damn it, I am going to work from the side of the pool.

The pool is relatively empty. I have full run of the place and the best pick of lounge chairs. I select one half in the shade and half out, lay my towel across it, adjust my sunglasses and flop out. By the time I get around to making those calls I am halfway done with my pina colada and my skin is a shade darker than it was an hour ago. I call Gavin first. He is irritated that it took so long, but compliments me on how Tommy did. He informs me that our producer is clamoring for a follow up interview with Tommy. I refrain from telling him that it might be a conflict of interest for me now.

By modern standards, what Tommy and I shared was barely a kiss. And there certainly were no promises exchanged, or any words at all, really. Both of us could go on with our lives and call the kiss nothing more than a gesture of thanks.

I would be sorely disappointed if we did.

I spent the majority of my time in bed last night trying to pinpoint the exact moment when my attraction for Tommy began. It is proving to be a challenge. I retrace our relationship, all the way back to the beginning. Even in that casino something about him gave me pause. At the time, I was sidetracked by his status, by my desire to do my job. But even when I got the interview, I agreed to help him, even jumped at the chance. I used my vacation time and spent it in the sweltering humidity, stressing over the issues of people I barely know.

For what? Did I get a glimpse of his abs in the cage and subconsciously decide to chase after them? Am I really so enraptured by his smile? So taken in by his brooding? I am not some teenage girl fawning over the bad boy.

So why is it that I am sitting here, thinking about Tommy Conlon?

And is he thinking about me?

I want to slap myself. I need to get it together. It was a kiss, not a profession of love. It is probably lust more than anything else, or maybe desperation. We got swept up in the emotion of it all and he kissed me. That is all. I should focus on the trial, or the pile of work I will have to do when I get back. Or maybe I should call my mother, or my brothers. I should see how my nephew is doing. I should order those new curtains I need for the house. I should actually pay attention to what Gavin is saying to me on the phone.

Instead I make some excuse to hang up and promise to call him back soon. Then I order another pina colada, roll over onto my stomach and close my eyes.

I return to my room an hour later, buzzed, tan and still damp from my swim. I take a long hot bath and then lounge around in nothing but a towel. I do nothing. Nothing but think. Monday seems ions away.

I amuse myself for the rest of the day with actually doing some work. I write some blog posts on ESPN's website. I return messages and I finally get around to calling my parents. Sunday is more of the same. I manage to find a church nearby and attend mass. It is a nice change of pace. The priest is discussing charity, something that has obviously been close to my heart lately. I listen attentively, drawing solace. I my way out I pause to light a candle. I say a brief prayer for Tommy and another for his family. I walk out of the church and leave my fears and insecurities there. What will be, will be. Stressing about it will not change anything.

I take the rest of the afternoon to sight see. Arlington Cemetery is beautiful in a haunting way. I snap a few pictures of the eternal flame at the Kennedy graves, but quickly become unsettled by the rows and rows of pristine ivory crosses spanning over the green hills. With all the war talk lately, those crosses represent more to me than just names. I see the faces of all the young men and women I have come into contact with. I hope that they will not end up here anytime soon. I retreat from the place and hightail it across the bridge to DC. I have already seen most of the memorials, but I spend a pleasant few hours wandering through some of the more obscure Smithsonian museums.

By the time I drag myself back to the hotel the sun has gone down and my feet are screaming for a break. Despite my exhaustion, I am too wound up to sleep. I take advantage of the free HBO to catch up on _Game of Thrones_ and then lay awake with the television on low, thinking about tomorrow. The trial is blessedly in the morning, but the anticipation is still awful. I can count on CNN and the other major news channels for limited coverage, but I wish I could be there. It would be awful to stand alone in court, with no support system present. Thankfully, Tommy is a tough guy. He is also used to being alone. The thought makes me sad.

I spend a restless night, punctuated by wild dreams. At first there are a few bizarre ones that I forget the moment I wake up. Then the nightmares begin. I dream the worst. I see Tommy losing his trial, being dragged off in chains. My mind conjures images I have only seen in history classes and newsreels—firing squads, hangings, trench warfare. I wake up in cold sweat. The bedside clock informs me that it is just after 6 in the morning. I give up on sleeping.

I force myself to eat breakfast and flip on the news. The next few hours are a blur of speculation. I watch every major network, listen to their points. Some seem inclined to think that Tommy will get off free, that public outrage is so great that the Marines will have no choice. A minority believes that Tommy will go to prison. One radical says that he will be going back overseas.

I sit cross legged on the bed, hoping for the best. One hour drags by, then two, then three. I doze off once or twice, always waking in a panic. My phone remains silent.

Just as an advertisement for Anderson Cooper's show runs, I get a call from Tess.

"How did the show go?" I refrain from asking about Tommy immediately.

"It went well, really well." Tess sounds exhausted. Her tone does not match her statement.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"Tommy called about a half hour ago," she sounds on the verge of tears.

"What did he say?" A sickening feeling of dread is settling over me.

"He's going back." She says. I can hear her sobbing. Unbelieving, I ask her to repeat herself.

"Tommy's going back." She says. "They're making him finish his tour."

I begin to tremble violently. All of our work, all of my time, has counted for nothing. Tommy's worst fear has come true. He is going back. I begin to sob, not realizing that I am still on the phone. Tess tries to tell me something about Brendan and Paddy. They are driving the rental car back today. They will be back in a few hours. I hear her girls in the background, asking about what is wrong. Tess promises to call back.

It was all for nothing. I collapse into the mattress, tears streaming down my cheeks. I feel sick to my stomach. I bury my head in the pillow, trying to get a grip on reality. I slow down my breathing, will myself to pull it together. Someone is knocking on the door, housekeeping most likely. I lean up enough to ask them to come back later.

"Nicole," a man's voice answers. "Let me in."

It is Tommy. Even without seeing him, I know. Panicking, I wipe my face and hastily go to the door. I know I look a mess. I am still wearing pajamas, my hair is in unruly curls and now my eyes are swollen. Still though, I open the door.

Tommy looks put together in contrast. He is dressed in uniform. The tan fabric is pressed into crisp lines. Even his expression is composed.

"Can I come in?" he is polite as ever, but there is urgency in his tone. "I need to talk to you."

Nodding, I step back and let him in.


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: ****Thank you for reading and especially to those who reviewed! **

**If I haven't thanked you personally, please know that I appreciate all of your feedback! Thanks so much!**

* * *

><p>Did you just wake up?" Tommy takes in my sweatpants and generally disheveled appearance.<p>

I feel very self conscious. I excuse myself to the bathroom where I take a good look at my reflection. Yikes. I look like I have a cold. I turn on the sink, heat the water up and set about correcting my exterior. I brush my teeth again, wash my face, and run some product through my hair. Five minutes later I am still in sweatpants but no longer look like the walking dead.

Tommy is seated on the queen-sized bed with a dark grey duffle bag at his side. He regards me coolly as I emerge from the bathroom. He looks composed. I was having what could be described as an emotional breakdown not ten minutes ago and he is sitting there, looking as though nothing is wrong.

"You wanted to talk?" I ask. I am still standing near the bathroom, my arms crossed over my chest.

Tommy shrugs. "Did Brendan call you?" he asks.

"Tess."

"So you know?"

I nod. "Is that what you wanted to talk about?"

"No, not really." Tommy stretches his arms over his head. "I was hoping you'd have a joke for me."

I am confused for a moment. Then I remember our conversation from a week back. I joke when things become uncomfortable. Desperate to provide some sort of distraction, I scour my mind. I cannot even come up with a riddle.

"I'm sorry." I tell him, "I can't produce them on demand."

Tommy looks nonplussed. "You'll have to find some different way to distract me." He smirks at me. I cannot understand his behavior.

"Tommy," I begin. I cross the room toward him. "You've got to be feeling something. Don't you want to talk about it?"

His smile drops. "Of course I'm feeling something." He tells me. "I'm going back. It's a nightmare. I feel scared, sick, and angry. Sad," he admits. "But I don't want to talk about it."

I open my mouth to protest. "Tommy—"

"Don't." his command is firm but not cruel. "Brandon is going to want to talk. And Pop. Probably even Tess. They're going to cry. They're going to worry." All at once, the emotion of the day is settling onto his face.

"I have a month," he continues. "And then it's a half tour over there." He gestures with his hands. "And I don't want to spend any more time than I have to thinking about it."

"All right," I push the fact that _I _need to talk about it to the back burner. After all, my worst nightmare has not just come true. "What do you want to do?" As always, I am determined to help.

Tommy considers my question for a moment. "I want to take you out." He says at last.

"What?" I make no effort to disguise my surprise.

"I want to take you out somewhere." He repeats. "If we met like normal people, I would have hit on you." He tells me. "Maybe bought you a drink. Maybe asked you to come home with me." His smirk returns as I begin to blush.

"I might have said yes." I am on an emotional rollercoaster. My despair has been replaced by elation.

"Say yes now." He prompts.

"All right." I nod. "Let me change first."

I dive for my suitcase and rush for the bathroom. It takes me only a moment to select the nicest outfit that I brought with me: a white sundress with orange flowers. I quickly throw it on before I can think too deeply about it, swipe on some mascara and lip gloss and hurry out of the bathroom.

It seems I change faster than Tommy. He is shirtless and in the process of jerking his jeans up around his waist. I take a moment to admire the masculine curves of his back. The hard lines of his physique contort as he shimmies into the denim. I feel my face begin to heat up along with other, more intimate body parts. I cough, suddenly nervous.

"Hey," again, he shows no emotion. "I didn't want to go in my uniform." He gestures to a pile of neatly folded clothing on the bed. He reaches down for an unassuming t-shirt, a navy blue number that isn't as tight as his shirt from the other night, but still is hugging his body like a Koala bear pencil topper.

"Ready?" he shoves a plain, black, baseball cap over his head and reaches out for me.

I grasp his hand and follow him out of the door.

It is still early enough in the day where people are either at work, or still asleep. We encounter no one in the lobby and hailing a cab is easy. With my hair curly and pulled back, and Tommy's hidden, no one recognizes us. Tommy holds my hand in his lap the entire car ride over. Even though he is too large for it to be comfortable, he is stationed in the middle seat, right next to me. He holds the door open for me on our way into the Cheesecake Factory. It is not the typical selection for a brunch, but I do not question it.

We are the only ones in the restaurant besides an elderly couple. The waitress sits us on the opposite side from them. The woman gives us a smile and a wave as we pass them. Tommy politely waves back. We are seated in a booth.

"Damn." Tommy mutters after the waitress walks away. When I glance at him questioningly, he smiles. "I was counting on pulling out your chair for you."

I laugh. He seems pleased. Instead of sliding in the opposite bench, he sits next to me. I do not object. I pretend to study my menu for a while, but I am completely focused on the man next to me. The side of his body is pressed flush to mine. I listen to the rhythm of him breathing. His eyes scan over his own menu, pausing every now and again. He looks completely focused as he flips page after page. After a moment he notices me watching him.

"I don't want food." He tells me.

"Neither do I." I admit.

"Let's get cheesecake. God, I haven't had cake in years." He looks longingly at the dessert section.

That settles it. We discuss which cake sounds the best before settling on ordering five different flavors (the best as recommended by our waitress). They arrive all at the same time. With a flourish, Tommy shakes out his cloth napkin, tucks it into the neck of his shirt and turns to me.

"Let's do this."

We laugh and eat cake, pretending that we have forgotten what has brought us together in the first place. It is nice to just talk with no interviews hanging over our head. I am not giving him instructions or arguing about what to say. Tommy is actually smiling, acting silly. He seems young, happy. I am glad I am here to witness it. He asks me the normal first date questions, where I am from, where I went to school, where I live now. Somehow they are more significant though. After nearly a month of prying into his back story, it is nice to share some of mine.

"So, are you dating anyone else?" he asks, licking chocolate off of his lips.

"It's a little late to be asking that," I laugh. I am giddy off of lack of sleep, sugar and his company. "But no; just you."

"Good." He leans forward, closing the scant inches between us. He tastes like chocolate and strawberries, with a hint of the pumpkin pie cheesecake he just swallowed. His kiss has more urgency than the last one. His tongue traces my lips and my mouth parts at his command. We are making out in public like a bunch of horny teenagers and I could not care less.

Somehow we manage to part long enough to pay the bill, gather up our boxed cheesecake and catch a cab back to the hotel. It takes all of my self control to not jump him in the cab, the lobby or even the elevator. I manage to keep my hand steady enough to slide the keycard into the door. The minute the door clicks shut, Tommy is on me. The leftovers bag gets deposited on the dresser before we begin the awkward dance of disrobing one another. Tommy has an easier job than I do. His hands shove the straps of my dress from my shoulders. Her jerks the material down and it bunches at my waist but he maneuvers it off. It pools at my feet. Tommy lifts me up out of it with his good arm and carries me to the bed. My back hits the mattress and he comes tumbling down over me.

"Your uniform," I manage to tell him. I can feel the previously pristine clothing under my back.

"Fuck it," he tells me. With a tug, it is out from under me and thrown unceremoniously to the floor.

I fumble with his jeans. He is placing extremely distracting wet kisses down the side of my neck and over my chest. I feel my body arch upward without my permission, unconsciously seeking him out. He discards his shirt and kicks his pants off. I help him detangle them from his ankles. I am abruptly struck by the intimacy of what we are doing. The idea that this is just a last thrill before heading off to war enters my mind and I cannot shake it, even as Tommy is igniting my body with his hands.

"Tommy," I gasp as his palms skim the bottom of my breasts.

"Yeah?" his voice is muffled against my skin.

"Would you be doing this, if you weren't—"

"Getting deployed again?" he lifts his head long enough to smirk at me. "I was going to come over here and seduce you no matter how the trial went."

His cockiness is infuriating, but his answer is comforting. As if to reassure me, he captures my lips in another kiss.

"You've been driving me crazy since we met in that casino. God," he groans, rubbing against me. "I want you."

I stop asking questions after that.

I am grateful for all the time I've spent recently watching MMA because being in bed with Tommy Conlon is like a wrestling match. I hit the mattress so many times in so many different ways that I lose count. By the time it is done, my legs are shaking and I feel like I have some sort of magnificent vertigo. He is lying behind me, his chest pressed to my back, one hand locked firmly around my waist and the other tangled in my mass of hair. He leans forward like he is trying to pull me into him. He drops a kiss on my shoulder.

"You ok?" somehow I know he is asking about more than my post-coital bliss. I nod slowly.

"Are you?" I ask quietly.

"No. Not really." He admits. I want to turn around to look at his face but I do not seem to have the strength.

"What are you going to miss most?" I ask.

"I don't know. The little things." He exhales. "Beer, junk food, my family I guess."

"You guess?"

"We were never close. And for the first time, we've got a chance to change that. And I have to go back."

"But you'll come back."

"Maybe."

"You will." I grasp his hand tight.

"If I do, I'm still coming back to a pile of shit." He says. "I'm going to need serious therapy." It is supposed to be a joke, but we both know better.

"Will you keep in contact with me?" I ask after a few minutes of silence.

"If you still want to talk to me." When I ask why I would not want to talk to him, he continues. "I'm different over there. You have to be. It's going to be like moving backwards."

I roll over so that I am facing him. His grey eyes stare into my brown ones. For once, I am the one with nothing to say. There is so much I want to tell him, so much I want him to know, and I cannot even form a single sentence. So I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him with as much passion as I can muster. He returns the gesture eagerly. We are locked around each other, skin on skin. By the time I pull back we are both gasping for air.

"Thanks," he tells me again. "For everything."

"I'd do it again." I say.

"I know this is a lot to ask." He begins. "And it's not like we're a couple, or…" he swallows thickly. I stroke his cheek to urge him to continue. "Don't forget me while I'm over there, ok?" It is the last favor he has to ask of me.

"Don't forget me either." I tell him.

"I promise." He kisses my ear.

"I promise too."

We drift to sleep in each other's arms.


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note: ****Thank you for the reviews and for reading! If you have time, please let me know what you think about this chapter.  
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><p>Tommy is all over the news again. He left the United States to a crowd of supporters and well wishers and even a few protesters. I don't know how it was that they were able to find the time and date of when he was leaving, but they showed up in scores. MMA fans, political aficionados and fan girls brandished signs, played music and blew kisses at the young men and women who will be spending the next year of their life overseas. Tommy only has 6 months to go, but it will be six long, hard months away from home. The emotion in the room was palpable as the soldiers waved goodbye.<p>

I was not there. I was in the newsroom at ESPN headquarters in Bristol, Connecticut, pretending to be focusing on my job. Very few people know where I spent my last few weeks and I am in no hurry to tell them. Gavin keeps cornering me with questions, demanding that I fill him in on his two new favorite fighters. I give him the outer details, basically reiterating what has already been said on television. He seems to realize something is up. Eventually, I suppose I will have to tell him. He is too sharp to stay in the dark for too long. But I am afraid that if I talk about it now, I might burst into tears.

I have not cried at all since that day in Arlington, and I am not planning on it. Tommy certainly did not need to spend the last few hours with me trying to talk me off the edge, and it will not serve anyone if I fall into some sort of depression. I will continue on as if nothing is bothering me and hopefully, in six months, Tommy will be home.

Not that his home is with me. He will go back to Pittsburgh while I remain here. I do not know what will happen between us at that point, but for now, I know that I will email and snail mail and Skype with him. We agreed to keep in contact that day in the hotel. His family was due back at any moment, necessitating that we at least put our clothing back on. Before I relinquished him back into the arms of his hysterical relatives, Tommy gave me a lingering kiss and reiterated his promise. And now, I will keep calm, carry on, and eagerly anticipate any contact with him.

The first email arrives just as the leaves begin to change. It is already chilly in Connecticut. I rush back into the studio from my car, bundled up against the cold. It is beautiful outside, a sea of oranges and reds and browns. Tourists will be flocking in soon. It is a slow week in the sports world, just the usual line up of football games and speculation on the upcoming NBA season. I have got some highlight reels to voiceover, but nothing too tough. I click on my heels through the lobby of ESPN headquarters, a huge bag of Chipotle swinging from one arm. Gavin agreed to start the editing if I picked up lunch. I wind through cubicles until I get to the editing bays. We are not technically allowed to eat there, but I slide the door shut, lower the blinds and sit down.

"I got you a burrito in a bowl," I swing the bag down and start rooting through it. It is not until I notice that Gavin is staring at me that I take a long look at him.

"What?" One bushy black eyebrow is arched and his arms are crossed over his chest. Gavin strikes an imposing figure at the most normal of times. He is over 6 feet tall, barrel chested and built like a bull. Most people assume he is one of the athletes and not just the camera man.

"You left your email open." He tells me. A smirk is starting to form.

"So?" I shrug out of my pea coat and hang it on the chair. I frequently leave my email open while at work and I generally have no problem with Gavin taking a glance at it now and again. Normally, it is just a note on some story.

"Why is Tommy Conlon emailing you from Iraq?" he comes to his point at last.

"What?" I leap over him and to the monitor. In a second I have the window up. I frantically click the mouse to open the message. I am sprawled halfway across Gavin's lap. As I scan the words of Tommy's email a giant grin splits my face. I have not heard from him in a week, not since the night before he left.

"I knew it!" Gavin throws his hands up like a Baptist choir. "I knew it!" he repeats.

"Knew what?" I am slightly irritated that he is interrupting my reading.

"I can't believe you didn't tell me you were sleeping with him!"

I hush him hurriedly. He lowers his voice, but continues his interrogation.

"After I helped you dig that dirt up on him," he puts on a mock pout. "I thought we were friends."

Resigning myself to finally telling someone, I sigh. "Fine, it was just once." I say.

"Must have been a helluva time for him to be emailing you a novel like that." He gestures to the lengthy email.

"Did you read it?" I feel my face heat up. There were some…personal details included in that text.

"Didn't have to." Gavin wrenches the top off of his food. "You just turned maroon."

I blush more. I settle for dignified silence and decide to focus on eating while I scan the rest of the letter. I will have to write back in the privacy of my own home.

"So, are you guys dating?" Gavin asks around a mouthful of black beans.

"Not right now." I pick at my food.

"Well obviously," Gavin rolls his eyes. As large as he is, the gesture always looks a bit absurd. "When he gets back?"

"We haven't planned ahead that far." I say.

"So you, what, just fell into bed with the guy?" I shrug. Gavin groans. "I thought women were supposed to gush about emotions."

"You hate it when I gush," I tell him.

"And now, the one time I want details, you won't give them." He does not sound truly angry.

In an attempt to change the subject I move my hand back to the mouse and start pulling out sports highlights. Gavin takes my point. We resume working in the well-worn and efficient way that is our signature. It is a relatively comfortable silence, or it would be, if Gavin would stop looking at me and laughing every few minutes.

"Answer me this one question," he says finally, "was it good?"

"You've seen him fight?" I ask in return. Gavin nods. "It was like that," Gavin's eyes widen with concern and I feel compelled to add, "But not painful."

"My God," Gavin bursts out laughing. Every time he gains composure he looks at me and guffaws again. Tears are streaming down his cheeks.

"Good for you," he chortles in between laughs, "Good for you."

It takes everything in me to not rush out of the door and speed home. I force myself to cautiously navigate the winding roads that take me to my house. I'm relieved as I turn into my block. My home laptop is practically screaming my name. I throw my front door open, take a minute to hang my jacket on the hooks in the foyer and rush into my living room. My laptop is situated on a small, oval, Ikea coffee table sandwiched between two tan suede couches. The couches are faded and beginning to fray a little bit and there is a stain on the coffee table where I once spilled nail polish remover. My living room will not be winning any prizes in _Better Homes and Gardens_ anytime soon, but it is my home, the place where I am most comfortable.

While my laptop takes ages to update, I fix myself some tea, change out of my work clothes and load my dishwasher. I am dying to read Tommy's letter. I pull up the text while the evening news hums quietly from my television in the background. The backlash over the Marine Corps decision to send Tommy back has been tremendous. It has set off protests and angry arguments on both sides. None of this, I realize, will change the fact that Tommy is in Iraq, but it might change something for the next generation. Congress is debating imposing mandatory limits on how many tours a soldier can complete in a 3-year period and there has even been some talk on enforcing mandatory counseling for everyone who has been to war. I've been watching as much coverage on the issues as I can stand, but I am a little worn out from the sheer emotion of it all. Now, I mute the television and turn to my computer.

This letter is longer than anything I would ever expect from Tommy. He reports that he is fine. It is hot in Iraq, but relatively quiet. He confides that he is uncomfortable with the attention he receives from the younger men. He feels a need to be a role model, but he just wants to be left alone and get through this. Instead he is running wrestling clinics in his downtime and become a kind of counselor. It seems he is not the only one with family problems. He tells me he has not volunteered any personal information on himself, but that he should start charging by the half hour for all the listening he is doing.

I can hear his voice in my mind as clearly as if he was talking to me. I can hear the inflections, the parts where he would trail off or mumble, even picture his shrugs and eye rolls. He signs the letter with a simple "Tommy". I am about to scroll up to respond when I see his post script. It simply says "P.S. I miss you."

I grin at my computer like the Cheshire Cat. It is like being in high school again, liking your first boy and analyzing his every move. I want to gush to someone, maybe Gavin tomorrow. Gavin at least can keep a secret. I type back my response, including information on what has been going on in the MMA world and at work. I feel elated as I write. I type and delete, add and omit. It is like writing a novel. A half hour later I finally feel comfortable enough to hit the send icon. And then I wait.

Over the next few weeks, Tommy and I fall into a pattern of regular communication. Tommy's letters come at all hours of the day, in all different lengths. Sometimes they are a quick anecdote on something that happened to him; sometimes they are longer tales, witty diatribes of Marine hijinks. Occasionally they are serious. He tells about deaths, explosions. The details in these letters are always scarce, as if he is afraid to reminisce too much. He keeps me informed from late August until Halloween.

Our correspondences are like punctuation marks on my day. It is a delight to read a message when I'm crowded in a tunnel, hoping the player I need to interview walks by and stops in front of me. It provides a distraction when work gets monotonous, when my producer decides to chew out everyone in the office, when my brother calls to complain about his wife. It feels as though Tommy belongs uniquely to me; I hear people inquire about him from time to time, ask what he is doing for a quick ten second spot on Sports Center. I keep the details to myself. Let them run the clip of him waving sullenly at a camera from the Middle East. Let Tommy keep his reputation as a hard ass. I will maintain my reputation for professionalism. It is a win- win.

Halloween is bitterly cold and snowing so trick or treaters are scarce this year. I am holed up in my house with the fireplace going. My oldest brother, Michael, is talking to me on the phone. He and his wife are having problems. I am sympathetic, but I wish there was someone else he could vent these emotions to. He tells me that I am the only one who offers objective advice; his guy friends are telling him to cut his losses and out younger brother tells him to be a man and just suck it up. And so it is me who takes his calls a few times a week.

"I think we need to get out, go somewhere alone to reconnect," he tells me.

I suggested the exact same thing two weeks ago, but I murmur the affirmative. It takes Michael a while to accept advice, especially from his kid sister. Michael got married right out of college to his school sweetheart. Angela is a nice woman, and the first decade or so of their marriage went off without any major hitches. But now their son (and my nephew) Luke is in his preteens and has become something of a little terror. It took them a while to get pregnant, and after a number of miscarriages, Luke was the only child they could have naturally. Angela has always been sensitive to that fact, treating Luke like a baby boy. Michael is hard on Luke, Angela coddles him and it is driving a wedge between them. I personally think that Luke's discipline issues are nothing that cannot be solved with a firm hand, but then again, Michael and I had the same upbringing.

"I'm thinking we can go somewhere over Christmas break."

"Mom and Dad are going to take Luke?" I ask. I am distracted by something on television, an announcement of some kind by the president.

"I kind of promised Luke a white Christmas." Michael suddenly sounds ashamed.

"Mike," I groan. We were born and raised in Los Angeles, CA, a place where we had a better shot of running into Ice Cube then seeing any actual ice falling from the sky.

"You don't have to. I know you're busy. We can take him with us or—"

"I'll do it," I kick myself.

Michael is clearly relieved. "He's always asking about you. Maybe you can take him to work with you one day. Luke loves sports."

My attention is back on the television. A lower third has just run under an image of the president.

"Mike," I interrupt him mid sentence. "Are you watching the news?"

"Yeah, they keep talking about the president." He transitions with me to the next subject, perhaps guilty for imposing on me.

"What's he saying?"

"Something about pulling out of Iraq. We should be completely out of there by Christmas."

It is like a white light goes off in my brain. The troops, the president is saying, should all be stateside for New Years Day.

Tommy is coming home. He is coming home early. My stomach does a strange sort of swoop. I conjure up images of what he will look like when he finds out. I want to be the one who breaks the news, but of course, I know someone else must have told them already, some authority figure. Still, I am elated. Mike hangs up when his wife returns. The phone is still hot in my hand as I dial the number for Brendan and Tess in Philadelphia.

Tess is practically screaming into the phone with happiness. She reports that Brendan and Paddy are already trying to get into contact with Tommy. She asks if I would like to come to his "welcome home" party. She's spouting off details and plans, sounding as happy as I am. My affection for her grows. She really is a ride or die supporter of her husband's family. Brendan talks to me briefly. It is clear he is as elated as his wife is. He says that Tommy called already and said he is excited to be returning home.

I hang up the phone and check my email. There are no new messages. I suppose that the time difference is to blame and fall into bed, elated. I dream of Tommy's homecoming, what I will say when I see him. My alarm goes off and before I have even started my coffee, I am checking my email.

There is nothing. A day goes by, and then a week, and then another. No word from Tommy comes, no old-fashioned notes in the mail, no emails, or Skype calls. I call Tess to see if she has heard from him. She says that Brendan got a quick call, but nothing in the last few days. I am torn between being panicked for his well-being, angry at his brush off and sad. I confide these feelings to Gavin. He tells me to stop being such a girl and just kick Tommy's ass when he gets back.

His idea has appeal. I move myself firmly into the angry camp. I am a jilted woman, but I refuse to show it. My work production increases ten-fold. I throw myself into getting the story with a passion that surprises even me. Every interview is a little victory, a little balm to soothe the burn Tommy dealt me. I am even unfazed when my producer instructs me to do a story on his homecoming and what it means for the world of MMA.

"You sure you want to do this?" Gavin asks for the umpteenth time. I am flying to Philly with my cameraman Nick to get footage of the prodigal son's return.

"I'll be fine."

"It's going to look really bad when you slap the shit out of him on live television," Gavin jokes. I shoot him a look that could kill. "Hey," he holds his palms up. "Save that for Conlon."

"I'm going to be cool," I tell him.

"As a cucumber." He looks amused at my predicament.

"Exactly." I say.

I repeat the mantra to myself as we travel. Cool as a cucumber. Cool as a cucumber.

It carries me all the way to the Conlon house. The minute the modest little family home comes into view, I feel my stomach drop. I am beginning to panic.

"You ok?" Nick looks at me with concern.

"Yeah. Just a little carsick." I try to smile. Nick looks convinced, but subtly scoots farther away from me.

"Just try not to throw up." He says.

"Right." I agree.

I contemplate just refusing to get out of the car for the briefest of seconds. Then I take a deep breath, calm myself and put my reporter face on. It got me through my first meeting with Tommy, it can get me through my last.

Cool as a cucumber, I repeat to myself.

"Ready?" Nick doesn't wait for my response before he rings the doorbell.

"As I'll ever be," I say truthfully.

We stand on the front porch, listening to the scuffling on the inside. For better or for worse, in an hour, it will all be over.


	13. Chapter 13

****Author's Note: ****Thank you for the reviews and for reading! You guys are amazing.****

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><p>It is bitterly cold on the front porch and Nick is already beginning to complain. Philadelphia, though brimming with history, is also full of some of the dreariest weather and down on their luck people to be found. It is a place where the Conlon family is not a unique one. However, Brendan and Tess's home is in a more pleasant suburb a little ways outside the smog of the city. From the look of the yard, it has grass during the warm weather. Now it's covered in ice. The brown remains of the lawn glitter under the afternoon light like jewels.<p>

"It's freezing!" Nick groans. His breath frosts in a cloud in front of us. He stamps his feet on the porch. "How long are they going to make us wait?"

To appease him, I ring the bell again though I can hear someone already making their way to the door.

"Nicole!" Tess smiles at me though she looks distinctly harried. "It's really nice to see you," she waves us inside.

Nick practically plows through the door, camera equipment in tow. I shoot him a warning glance to remind him to be polite. He seems not to see it.

"Gotta get the rest of the equipment." He rushes back outside without so much as an introduction. Tess looks unfazed.

"It's a little hectic in here." Tess apologizes.

Her hair is half down, wavy on one side and stick straight on the other. She also is still wearing sweat pants.

"I had to get the girls ready." She says by way of explanation. "Brendan and Pop are with Tommy," she leads me inside the living room. I notice her use of the term "pop". I take it as a sign that they have healed the rift between them.

In comparison to her ensemble, the living room is pristine. It has been polished and shined until it is sparkling, everything in its proper order. It is clear that some of the money that Brendan won has gone to renovations. Beautiful wood floors gleam, tasteful throw rugs accent the furniture and match the throw pillows on the couches. Even the light fixtures look brand new. It is the perfect place to shoot an interview.

"You have a beautiful house," I compliment. I know that saving this house was why Brendan entered Sparta to begin with.

Tess beams. "Thanks. It's not much, but it's home."

"Where do I set up?" Nick returns, interrupts our conversation, and crassly drops his equipment on the hardwood floor.

Tess tells him anywhere is fine and he starts working immediately. I have quickly learned that the easiest way to help Nick is to back up and let him do his thing, so I set about wandering aimlessly, glancing at family pictures. The photographs on the walls and shelves feature mostly the Conlon girls, but a few pictures are from longer back, including some wedding photos and even a prom shot of Brendan and Tess. I note a more recent photo of Paddy and his granddaughters posed in front of Rockefeller Center.

My heart seems to stop when I glance a picture of Tommy. He is stationed in a sunny dessert in a drab t-shirt and khakis. He is smiling his odd little half smile. His eyes are covered in aviators and he looks every inch the Marine. I have not seen him in months and this picture stops me in my tracks. The fact that he and I will be face to face within minutes, that he is probably in the same building that I am now, sinks in.

"Do you mind if I finish getting dressed?" Tess does not seem to notice my predicament.

Startled, I nod, attempting a smile. It must look incredibly forced, because Tess gives me a weird look.

"I think the men are done dressing. If you want to see them." She tells me. "They probably didn't hear you guys arrive."

"Sure. It'll be nice." I sound as though I am being strangled. Tess squints at me.

"Tommy was asking about you." She says. Her eyes seem to be assessing me.

"Really?" I try to remain cool.

"He said you guys talked while he was overseas." She is working her way to her point.

"Every once in a while, yes." I swallow thickly.

Tess looks unconvinced. "I think he'll be happy to see you." She says pointedly. "His last month over there was kind of rough."

It is my turn to be confused. "Why?"

Tess looks at me hard. "Go ask him for yourself," she says, not unkindly. She points down a narrow hall.

I nod and watch her disappear up the stairs. She shouts something up at her daughters who have begun to bump around in what I guess must be their room. I glance quickly at Nick and tell him I will be back. He barely looks up at me while he winds heavy cables around the corners of the living room.

Every step down that hallway feels like my feet are made of lead. My anger abated the moment Tess insinuated that something was wrong with Tommy. He had looked fine in the footage of him returning at the airport, but then again, I had not analyzed it thoroughly. Maybe it is an emotional kind of hurt. I feel suddenly selfish for focusing only on me the last few weeks. It was easier to be angry than worry. Now I am sick with it.

I knock on the door Tess pointed to. I hear men's voices inside. They stop abruptly. The knob turns and the door swing open, exposing a grinning Brendan. I am being swung into a hug before I even fully register his appearance.

"Nicole." He crushes the breath out of me.

"Hello Brendan," I wheeze.

"Shit, sorry," he lets go. I have to laugh. He looks so absurdly happy. His face seems decades younger since Sparta. The absence of bruises probably helps, but there is also an air of a man who is living the dream. In just a few months, nearly everything Brendan Conlon has ever wanted fell into his lap and it shows.

Paddy is the next up. He hugs me a little awkwardly. He too, looks happy. He has his granddaughters and now, both of his sons. I do not know the details of how their relationship is progressing, but if his smile is any indication, it is going well.

"Hey Nicole," the voice I now would know anywhere speaks my name. Tommy smiles at me from behind his brother. Almost involuntarily, my eyes sweep over every inch of him, looking for any indication that something is wrong. I almost miss it, but as I come to his neck, there is a corner of fabric peaking out at his neckline. It looks like a bandage.

"What happened to your neck?" I have not so much as said hello and I'm already berating him. So much for being cool.

Brendan and Paddy look alarmed but Tommy gives his brother a level-headed look. Brendan takes his nonverbal cue.

"Come on Pop. The girls have been too quiet." He smiles at us and leads his father out of the room.

The minute the door closes, I am on Tommy. Gingerly, I reach out and tug his black thermal down, exposing a large tan bandage. It is stained pink in the middle. I am terrified of what it might be covering.

"Oh my God, Tommy." I can't seem to arrange my thoughts. He is hurt. He is hurt and he didn't tell me.

"Nice to see you too, Nicole." He seems on the verge of laughter. His hand comes up to mine and gently coaxes me into letting go of the fabric of his clothing.

"Tommy," I bring myself to look him in the eye.

"I guess I owe you an explanation, huh?" he seems unconcerned.

My expression makes it clear that he does.

"I caught some shrapnel about three weeks ago. It hit me in the chest and some of my neck. I spent the last few weeks under medical care." He shrugs, "I don't think they wanted me to die. It'd look bad in the press." He says lightly.

"You took shrapnel to the neck," I am having trouble processing this. "What were you doing?"

"War." He says simply.

I feel faint. Tommy realizes something is wrong.

"Hey," he says quietly, pulling me into his chest. "I'm fine. It's ok."

I squeeze his hand tightly. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"I was under strict orders. I only had contact with immediate family. That was pretty much Pop." He says apologetically.

I feel awful. "I was so mad at you." I tell him. "I thought—"

"Yeah," he says. "I figured you might. I was kind of counting on Brendan telling you. I guess he dropped the ball on that one."

I begin to laugh with relief. It is like a knot in my stomach unties and releases.

"I'm glad you're back." I say.

"I'm glad to be back." He says.

Tommy has seemed to reach the maximum word quota for the hour because instead of saying anything more, he yanks me as close to him as possible and kisses me. All the words I had to say flee from my mind and I focus solely on feeling. I grasp him through the thick cotton of his long sleeved shirt, flattening my palms over his biceps. His hand comes up and cups my chin, pulling my face into his. Kissing him again is like water after a drought. Every nerve in my body relaxes. I sigh against his lips. He must take this as a good sign because his other hand snakes its way down my back, careful to feel every inch of me on its decent. It finds rest on the small of my back, just above the swell of my bottom.

I drag my fingers down his arms and to the hem of his shirt. I slide them under, tracing the warm skin and hard muscle. He's lost some weight, but the definition is still there. I take a mental inventory with my hands, confirming to myself that he is still intact. My fingers brush the bottom of his bandage right above his belly button. His injury is worse than he is telling me. I pull back from the kiss.

"What?" he asks when he sees my serious look.

"Take your shirt off." I instruct.

He smirks. "I'd love to, but don't we have to work in a minute?"

"Tommy," his smile fades. "How badly are you hurt?"

"I told you I'm fine."

"Prove it." I challenge. "Let me see."

We become engaged in a staring contest. I refuse to break first. I realize that he has been through hell, but it has not been easy for the people he left back here either. I am not about to let him shut me out.

Tommy sighs. "Fine." He lifts the hem of his shirt up just below his neck.

It takes everything in me to not gasp. The bandage is massive, covering nearly a quarter of his torso.

"Tommy," I begin. It is difficult to speak.

Nick shouting my name from the living room sends me crashing back to reality. For a moment, I forgot I was here to work.

"We'll talk after the interview?" I phrase it like a question, though it is more of a demand.

"I promise." He tugs his shirt back down.

"You'll tell me everything?" I ask again.

"If you want to hear it."

"Tommy," I say seriously. "I always want to hear it. Even when it's bad."

He sucks on his teeth and stares at me. I sense that he is coming to some conclusion.

"All right." He says. "We'll talk."


	14. Chapter 14

Tommy is shirtless in my bed, but it certainly is not as fun as the last time around. I have unscrewed the top of the hotel lampshade off and am angling the light at the right side of his body. Tommy is gingerly lifting the bandage off. It's obvious he's trying not to wince. With every exposed inch, I feel my stomach roil.

His torso is a roadmap of bruises and swelling, criss-crossed with deep gashes and puncture wounds. I am trying to picture exactly what could have caused it. There is a large laceration surrounded by many tinier cuts. It's in various states of healing, coloring his skin yellow and black in some areas, purple in other. Some cuts appear to still be seeping. I feel like I am about to pass out.

"You should have seen it when it first happened." Tommy grimaces as he leans backwards.

"What _did _happen?"

"Car bomb. I was standing too close." He says in a perfectly level voice. It is the tone he uses when he goes away inside and shuts down. It's like he is reading a text book, or reciting lines.

"How many people died?" I hate to ask the hard questions, but I have to know.

"12." He clips out. "8 were Iraqi. The rest were our guys." He begins to roll the bandage back down.

"You were in the hospital how long?" I help him with his task. It seems easier to focus on that roll of tan fabric than look one another in the eye.

"I was out for two days." He says. I swallow thickly, but do not speak. "When I woke up my ears were ringing and I thought my skin was on fire."

His hand finds mine almost unconsciously. I squeeze it tightly.

"I had the best medical care I could get out there. And by the time I was healthy enough to get back out, the president was bringing us home."

I silently process this information. His hand works to cover his wounds but I stop it. I am fascinated by the way his cuts weave in and out of his tattoos. His skin is like a diary of his life so far; major moments are marked in ink and scar tissue. I have a million more questions to ask but they seem stuck in my throat. I content myself with just running my fingers across his skin. It is a coppery color from the desert sun and it prickles with goose bumps as I trace the tribal design on his bicep.

"What are you going to do now?" the question encompasses everything I want to ask.

"Heal." He answers. "Get back in shape."

"To fight again?"

"Yup." He tucks the last of the bandage back over his collarbone. I study a tattoo of two masks on his chest, with the caption "laugh now, cry later". It seems to be a motto of sorts for him.

"Where are you going to stay?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Here. Maybe with Pop."

I let go of his hand and stand up.

"What?" he asks.

"Nothing. It's just…" I try to think of a way to phrase this that isn't insulting. I come up blank. "Should you be fighting so soon?" he gives me a baffled look. "I mean, should you go to therapy…or something?"

He looks angry. I fear I have overstepped my boundary. "Fighting is my therapy." He looks so furious that I become afraid. Acting on reflex, I step backwards away from him, palms up and out.

"All right," I do not recognize my voice, it is so small.

The anger melts from his face. He looks completely ashamed. "Nicole," he reaches out for me, but I do not take his hand.

"Come on," he gestures to me, his voice gentle. "I'm sorry."

I approach cautiously, the way one might walk towards a feral animal. The moment I am close enough to him, his hands encircle my waist. He drags me down into his lap, but I do not lean into his chest. I am terrified to hurt him, but also of what he might become. I think about Paddy, about what I have heard about him and who he used to be.

"Tommy," I say quietly. "You need to get help." He is silent so I continue. "Before this gets worse."

"Before I get like, Pop, you mean?" he does not sound angry. He takes my silence for confirmation. "I don't think it's going to matter." He says.

"Of course it will," I brace my hands on his shoulders. "Therapy can help you get over things, in a healthy way."

He shakes his head. "The only time I feel ok is when I'm training. When I'm focused on that, I'm not thinking about anything else. I'm not drinking, I'm not popping pills. I take care of myself. And I'm too tired at night to even have nightmares."

I try again. "Can't you do both?"

"Baby," it is the first time he has ever called me a pet name. "You've got to let me do things my way."

I have nothing more to say. Tommy is a mess, and I am not enough to pick up the pieces and put them back together. His hurt is more than I can heal. All at once I feel like crying. Embarrassed, I lift myself out of his lap and begin to pace around the room. Needing to be alone before I break down, I rush for the bathroom. My eyes are burning and I quickly turn on the faucet and wet my face. Over the rush of the water I hear Tommy walking around. Maybe he is leaving. I do not have the strength to stop him.

I am so emotionally involved at this point that it frightens me. Nothing is ever easy with the Conlons, especially Tommy. But I had hoped he'd be willing to cooperate when he got back. I do not want him to turn to substances, like many veterans before him. I do not want to hear a story a few years from now about a breakdown he has had. I do not want to watch him at MMA events, hard and shut down, expressing himself through violence. I do not want rage and anger to be his safe place.

I hear his footsteps and a door opening. A moment later, he is behind me.

"Nicole," he says with authority.

I stall, choosing to wet a washcloth and press it to my face rather than look at him. I am struck by the thought that I have run willingly into a train wreck. There is nothing I can say or do to fix the situation.

"Nicole, listen to me." He coaxes the cloth from my hand and tosses it to the counter. It lands with a wet slap. "I know you want to help. I like that you want to help." He lifts my chin with his hand. "You've done a ton for me, probably too much. But you can't do it all."

"I know," I sigh, deflated.

"This isn't the first time I've come back. I know what works." He is firm but not angry.

"I just want you to be ok," I need him to understand my position.

"I'm probably never going to be normal." He says pointblank. "But I'm not going to go crazy either."

The statement sits between us for a long while.

"Fighting really helps?" I ask at last.

"Yeah." He looks at me. "It does."

"Is it the only thing?"

"Nah," he shoots me a sly grin. "There's other things. Talking to you, for example." He has turned his seductive side back on. I sense it is a way for him to end the conversation, but I am not finished.

"Sex isn't therapy, Tommy." I say.

"No?" he leans down to nibble on my earlobe. I feel a streak of pleasure run down my spine.

"Tommy," I brace my hands against his chest and push. He moves back all of a centimeter, but takes my point. "What are we doing here?"

"I can tell you what I _wish_ we were doing here." His response irritates me. I try to twist my way out of his arms, but he holds me still. I am struck by how strong he is. He leans down until his face is millimeters away from me.

"Nicole," he says seriously. "You know I'm shit with words." I am in no way going to dispute this. "Cut me some slack," he says. When I look unconvinced, he continues. "I need you here. I _want_ you here."

"I can't stay," I say honestly.

"Then I'll visit you." He says. He winds his arm back around my waist.

"For how long?" I try not to focus on the sensations he is causing.

"As long as you want me." He pulls me into his chest.

"And what, I'll go to your fights? Cheer you on?" I'm speaking into his shirt.

"I'd be cool with that." He drops a kiss against my neck.

"That sounds like a girlfriend." I say. My heart stops as I wait for his response.

He smiles against my neck. "Do you want to be my girlfriend?"

"I'd think that's obvious." I say. He begins to laugh. I feel myself begin to get fired up.

"Relax," he chuckles. "You've got a worse temper than I do."

"Just thank God I'm not some bad ass fighter. Or I'd hit you." I bounce my fist off of one of his arms.

"I can teach you some moves." He catches my hand. Before I even register what he is doing, I am being picked up, flipped over and marched back into the room. Laughter bubbles from my lips. He drops me on the bed in a move I have only ever seen in WWE. I try to kick free, but he pins my legs. We are rolling across the mattress. I am giggling, content. By the time he manages to get me to stop wiggling I am completely out of breath.

"Tap out," he instructs.

"No," I stubbornly begin to wiggle again, but only succeed in rubbing my body along his.

"Tap out," he repeats, applying slight pressure on my lower body.

An idea strikes me. "I will, if you promise me something."

"What?" he looks intrigued.

"You'll go to therapy." He begins to roll his eyes but I continue. "Maybe just once a month. In three months, if you don't like it then stop."

He looks down at me. "What do I get?"

I hook one arm behind his neck and arch my body into his. "I'll be your girl." When he looks skeptical, I add, "it comes with certain…perks."

He considers this.

"You really want me to go." It is not a question but I nod anyway. He bites his lip, thinking. I content myself with stroking his hair. It is still severely short, but the jarhead cut is beginning to grow out. The new hair is impossibly soft, like baby bird feathers. He closes his eyes and sighs, leaning his head into my hand. He looks like a puppy.

"I'll go." He says at last. I smile hugely and try to kiss him, but he stops me. "Not for the perks," he continues, "But because it means a lot to you."

The moment this leaves his mouth, he flushed beat red. He attempts to roll off of me, but I move with him. He ends up sitting with his back against the headboard and me in his lap.

"Thank you," it is my turn to thank him for once. I lean my head against his good shoulder.

"Anything for my girl," he manages to sound grumpy about it, but the tenderness with which he kisses me says otherwise.

"Do you still want the perks?" I try my hand at being seductive and whisper in his ear.

His face splits into a devilish grin as he rolls us both over.


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note: You guys are the best. I'm glad you're all reading this still. And thanks for all the wonderful reviews. ****  
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><p>"Did you pick one?" I am stationed in my front yard, bundled against the cold, my phone in one hand, the other hand working on covering my plants against the frost.<p>

"Pick what?" Tommy's voice asks.

"Tommy," I sigh. It is taking some time to adjust to his sense of humor. Piece by piece, his hard exterior is beginning to crumble, giving way to a dry humor I did not know he possessed. I love it when he shows me this side, but it is hard to identify at times. Like now, for instance.

"Relax," he laughs on the other end of the line. "I've found one."

"And you made an appointment?" I hate how much I sound like I am nagging, but Tommy doesn't do things unless prodded into it.

"I made an appointment." He echoes me. "What's going on over there?"

"I'm trying to stop my plants from freezing," I curse as the sheet blows off my rose bush.

"That's probably a lost cause." Tommy says. "Especially if the weather is anything like here."

"It's it freezing?" I ask.

"It's so cold I can juice oranges with my nipples," he says.

The absurdity of his statement sends me into hysterics.

"You know," I tell him, "Once the temperature dips below 40, I'm pretty sure you're supposed to stop running in a tank top."

"Who made up that rule?"

"Nature." I say.

"Did nature also tell you to cover your plants in blankets?" he asks.

"Touché," he has me there. I resign myself to planting a new garden in the spring.

"Are you on your way home?" I ask back in the warmth of my own house.

"I'm going to go to the gym for a little. Then Brendan wants me over for dinner." He says. Behind him in the background a car honks and he curses. "No one can drive in this damn city," he laments.

I start heating water for tea. "What are you doing over the weekend?" it is Friday night.

"Going to that damn appointment you made me make," I can almost hear him sticking his tongue out at me. "And then I don't know. Being a bum probably. You?"

"Enjoying the quiet." I tell him. "My nephew will be here Sunday."

"How long is he staying?"

"A whole week." I explain the situation to Tommy.

"Nice to know that I'm not the only one with family problems."

"Yours seem to be going away." I say.

"More or less. Tess and I still get into it every once in a while. And sometimes we try to have dinner and no one talks."

I can picture this perfectly. It makes me want to giggle, but I bite my tongue.

"How's your dad?"

"Pop's fine." He says. "Happy. He's always at Brendan's house now. I think he wants to sell the old place and move closer to his grandkids."

"What do you think about that?"

"I don't know," Tommy mumbles. "There's a lot of memories in that old shack, but most of them are bad. So I guess it wouldn't be that big of a deal."

Despite what he says, I know that the thought upsets him. I try to steer his focus elsewhere.

"Are you going to get your own place?" I know he is splitting time between his brother's house and his dad's.

"I'm in no hurry." He says. "I can bounce around between them and they seem happy."

"You're welcome to visit me here, too." I say.

"Once I pick a car that can make that drive, I'll be up there more than you want me." He tells me.

Tommy recently got sponsored by a few different companies to fight. He would not have bothered with them, but he needs the money. I do not think they will ever get a commercial out of him, but he will wear their gear and glower, and that's good enough for them. Now he has change in his pocket and they have a poster boy the nation already loves.

"Well, pick a car fast." I say.

He begins to laugh. "You want me up there really bad, don't you sweetheart?"

"Whatever," it's not my best comeback. "You know you miss me too."

"Maybe." He says cryptically. I tell him if we were face to face, I would smack him. "That's not much motivation to come up there and see you." He laughs.

"I could probably think of one or two things that might get you up here. Just give me a second."

His laughter continues. It is quickly becoming one of my favorite sounds in the world. Lord knows it was scarcely heard in the past few years.

"I'll see you soon, babe." He says. "Sooner than you know."

"I'm holding you to that." I tell him before we hang up. "Tell me how your appointment goes."

"You'll be the first to know." He promises.

As I go about my day's errands, I contemplate Tommy entering therapy. I do not know what I am expecting to happen; it certainly won't be a quick fix, or a cure all. But maybe it will help. He seems happier by leaps and bounds now, but there are still moments where he slides back into the darkness. He had nightmares the night we spent together in Philadelphia and Tess confided to me that it is not an isolated incident. As far as any of us can tell, he is clean on substances. It is a good step in the right direction. Now we just have to help him continue down that road.

Tommy has a great support group. The widow and children of his fallen friend Manny came to visit him the moment he returned state side. They spent over a week with him, treating him to a road trip from Philly to Texas, a way to say thank you for the gift he gave them. He seemed to return a changed man. He smiles more, is quicker to laugh and even joke. While training, he is still the beast he always was, but his personal life is something entirely different. He is molding into a person I only saw glimpses of before he left. He is unfailingly polite, great with his nieces, and apparently (according to Brendan) the kid he used to be. And aside from being a few hundred miles away, he is a pretty fantastic boyfriend.

I make the bed in my guest room and run through my house again, making sure it is preteen boy proof. I have my X Box set up (it normally sits idly), snacks in the cupboards and fridge and any late night shows on my cable blocked. I am in the kitchen starting to make dinner when someone knocks on my door. I contemplate letting it go unanswered when the knock sounds again, this time much more insistent.

I peak through the peephole and nearly fall over.

"Tommy?" I swing the door open.

He is bundled up in a black NorthFace jacket and a beanie that covers his dark hair. He smiles at me.

"Surprise," he says.

I nearly tackle him into my frosted over yard. He catches me, but we both fall off of my front step. We plunge backwards, destroying one of the bushes I was earlier trying to save. When we manage to right ourselves, Tommy's Timberlands have managed to completely obliterate my landscaping.

"Sorry!" I tell him. "What are you doing here? Weren't you just in Philly?" Our conversation ended only a few hours ago.

"I was just outside of it, actually." He follows me into my house, graciously not acknowledging my loss of decorum a moment ago. He gestures back to the driveway where a brand new black Dodge truck is parked.

"Perk of having sponsors," he explains as I ogle the car. "I got it Wednesday."

"Why didn't you tell me?" I help him shrug out of his huge coat.

"I wanted to surprise you." He pulls his hat off and runs a hand through his mussed hair. "So I made an appointment for a shrink up here. I figure if I've got to do this, I can at least sleep over with you the night before." He shrugs and bends down to untie his boots.

"Aw, you did miss me," I tease.

He glances up at me. "Nah. I just really wanted to take my new car for a ride."

"A four hour one?" I ask.

"I really love that new car smell." He tells me.

I tackle him again, this time managing to get on his back and push him to the ground. It is a matter of milliseconds before he gains the upper hand, flips me around and puts me in a sort of headlock.

"You've got to stop being so violent. Maybe you're the one who needs therapy." He chastises.

"Stop being such a smart ass, then." I tell him. I squirm to get free and he lets me. We go down on the rug in my foyer.

"It's easier being a smart ass then a sensitive guy." He says. "Cut me some slack."

"Fair enough." I lean down and kiss him, my hands roving across his chest. I am fascinated by the scars there. Some are rippled and bumpy, others flat. But the most important thing is his wounds are healing.

"I'm glad you came to visit me." I say.

"I'll be here every other weekend." He says. He is flat on his back looking up at me, his hair messy and in his eyes. I lean over, bracing my elbows on either side of his head.

"I like you from this angle," he tells me. I roll my eyes.

"How long are you staying?" I ask him.

"How long do you want me?" he grins crookedly at me.

For some reason this question throws me in a weird space. I am very close to telling him that I want him forever. The words are right on my lips, but I pause. The word forever is a serious commitment. It alludes to love. I stare down at the man who my life has been revolving around for months now. If someone had told me that Fourth of July in the Casino that by Christmas time I'd be straddling that surly fighter in my front hall, I would have laughed in their face. Yet, here we are.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks me. He is becoming rather adept at recognizing my emotions.

"When we met." I answer.

He chuckles. "I was an asshole."

"So was I." I say. It seems like ages ago that I was hunting him down for a story.

"Makes sense that we're dating." He laughs and pulls me down to him.

He wraps me in a toe curling kiss. His body is warm despite the temperature outside. I press into him, glad that for the first time since we've been together he is not wincing from any injuries. Tommy is well, and wholly mine.

He pulls back all of the sudden. "Are you cooking something?" he sniffs the air experimentally.

I move with the speed of the Looney Tunes Roadrunner. My pot pie is blessedly not burnt. I fish it out of the oven and set it on a cooling rack. Tommy comes up behind me.

"You cook, you've got a job and a house and you're gorgeous." He says. His arms encircle my waist. "I think I'm going to have to hang on to you." He resumes kissing me.

As we stand in my warm, delicious smelling kitchen kissing, I am overwhelmed by a desire to hang onto this feeling. I want this, this simple happiness where no one is talking about work or war or responsibility. There is only Tommy and his lips and the promise of a long night alone together.

It's startling, realizing that I am falling for him and falling hard. This thought reverberates in my mind as he runs around my kitchen, determined to make dessert since I made dinner. He is standing at the counter, mixing instant cake batter, chattering happily about nothing in particular.

I think I love him. It does not make sense. I should pick someone a little easier to be with, someone who can sleep through a night without waking up in terror. Someone who is family is not so dysfunctional.

"You're doing some deep thinking, babe." Tommy remarks. "Want to share?"

Screw logic, I think. Plucking up my courage, I open my mouth.

"I love you."


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note: You guys are the best! Thank you for consistently reviewing! ****  
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><p>It is like all of the oxygen gets sucked out of the air. There is tremendous pressure in my chest, like my lungs are about to explode. The only sound for a moment is the whirring of the electric mixer. The moment I told Tommy that I loved him, his hand slipped, splashing chocolate batter across the counter. He scrambles to clean it up, pointedly avoiding my eyes.<p>

I do not know what I am expecting to happen, but this silence is deafening. I weigh my options, trying to come up with something to say. I could laugh, but that seems inappropriate. I could tell him I was just kidding, but that would be a bold-faced lie. Or I could repeat it. Neither seems the best choice.

"Tommy," the sound of my voice hits him like a whip. He jerks up, startled. "I'm not expecting you to say it back." I tell him. "I just wanted you to know."

The silence continues, at least on his end. Tommy beats the mixer on the side of the glass bowl. My simple statement has completely shut him down. He looks as though I just hit him in the head with a blunt object.

"You love me?" at first it comes out so quietly that I can't hear him. Then he repeats his question louder.

"Yes." I say simply.

Tommy swallows thickly. For a moment he looks as though he is going to be sick. I am up on my feet, unsure of what I am actually going to do, but poised to move. Tommy raises his hands, gesturing that he is ok. His face is down, facing the counter. I'm not sure if he is having a fit or contemplating the fastest way to get out of my kitchen and back in his truck. I should not have said anything. Absurdly, the Frank Sinatra song "Something Stupid" pops into my head. I should have thought about that before I blurted out my silly admission.

"Tommy, I didn't mean to…upset you." I begin. "We can pretend I never said it."

His head swings up so fast it's a blur. "Don't do that." He tells me. "Don't backpedal like that."

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do. You're kind of scaring me." I admit.

"Sorry," he begins shaking his head back and forth, like there is water in his ears. "I'm just not used to hearing that." He laughs. It is a kind of disjointed sound, almost maniacal.

It seems that he can survive war and physical abuse, but my admission of love has completely unhinged him. He wipes his face and begins to move, full of nervous energy. I watch him, my every nerve on alert.

"No one's said that to me since my mom died." He says suddenly.

I swallow hard. "Well, I'm saying it."

"Yeah," he agrees. "Yeah you are."

There is a loud bang that makes me nearly jump out of my skin. By the time I realize it was Tommy vaulting over my wood counter, he is right in front of me. I gasp and stumble back. He catches me confidently, pulls me up to him and crushes his mouth against mine. The intensity of his actions robs me of breath. Dizzy, I feel myself beginning to collapse. Tommy lifts my legs out from under me and wraps them around his waist. His arms are bracing my back. One hand is cradling my head and the other is firmly locked on my behind. His tongue sweeps past my lips, all at once aggressive and gentle. I feel a moan escape me involuntarily. The sound seems to egg him on. He tips us both over, pressing my back into my modest dining table. His body comes to rest over mine. I am still woozy and I feel as though I am floating above somewhere, watching us.

Tommy scoots us further up on the table. His hand acts as a pillow between my head and the hard grain of the wood beneath us. I am terrified that the table is going to give out. It is creaking and groaning under our combined weight, but somehow it holds. Tommy strokes me through my clothing, running his hands over every bit of skin he can. I am high on emotions—confusion, elation, desire. My body is humming, coming alive under his touch. I reach out for him and pull him down flush against me. I tangle my fingers in his unkempt hair, pepper kisses down the side of his face. He rocks his body against mine and I whimper against him. His hands are everywhere at once, my lips, my chest, my stomach, my waist. I fumble with the zipper of his jeans, trying to push the material down. We disengage for the briefest of moments, just long enough to shed crucial articles of clothing. Then he is on me again, skin on skin.

Twenty minutes later I come screaming back down to Earth, completely limp against Tommy's torso. My whole body is tingling. Tommy is still panting somewhere to the side of me, physically spent. I still do not know what has just happened but I am incapable of complex thought right now. I slide limply off of the table, down to my hardwood floor. I lay my head against a chair, close my eyes and try to focus on breathing.

"You ok?" Tommy asks. His voice is deep and hoarse. He slides down to sit next to me. Gently, he tugs my head against his shoulder.

"I'm…" I search for words. "I'm a little confused, honestly."

Tommy chuckles quietly. He runs his thumb down the side of my face, coming to rest on my lips. He leans down and kisses me again. It is softer this time than the kisses a few minutes ago.

"Come on," he stands himself up and reaches down for me. "Let's clean up a little."

I attempt to grab a dish towel and wipe up the spilled cake but he directs me firmly to my bedroom. He deposits me on the bed, then marches into my bathroom and turns on the tub.

"Relax." He tells me and kisses my hairline.

I pour myself into my bathtub and listen to the sounds of Tommy banging around in my kitchen. He has instructed me to not come out until he calls me. I do not have the strength to argue. I doze off a time or two in the hot water of my tub, depleted emotionally and physically. I still have no idea what the hell has just happened between us. I do not even have the strength to think about it. Instead, I climb out of the warm embrace of the water, dry myself off and throw on some comfy flannel pajamas. It occurs to me briefly that I have more flattering nighttime attire, but I honestly doubt this will matter to Tommy. I am braiding my hair back when I hear him calling me.

"Nicole?" he peaks his head in. "Hungry?" He asks.

"Starving." I allow him to take me by the hand and escort me back into my kitchen.

It is much cleaner than it was before I left, maybe even cleaner than it was before he arrived. I can smell the lavender scent of my dish soap, along with the aroma of reheated pot pie and the sticky sweet smell of sugar frosting. A lopsided, two-tier, chocolate cake is sitting on the now pristine counter. Tommy guides me to the gleaming dining room table, pulls out my chair and gestures for me to sit down. Silently, he doles out portions of food onto out plates. He seems in no hurry to break the quiet. I allow him a few bites of food.

"This is really good," he compliments me. I stare back at him.

"Tommy. We just had sex on my dining room table. I think we need to talk about this."

He chokes. "You said you love me," he says it as though this is some kind of explanation.

"I did." I confirm. "And then you tackled me to a surface that used to only be for eating."

He looks amused. "What did you expect me to do?" he asks.

"I don't know. Most people say something."

"I'm no good at saying something." He says. "That's your strong point. My strong point is action." He's looking at me hard, like he is willing me to understand.

"So, me loving you, it's a good thing?" I venture.

"Very." He spoons more pie into his mouth.

"And instead of telling me that, you chose to…express yourself on the table." I say.

He looks pleased that I grasped the concept so quickly. "It'll make a lot more entertaining story for my therapist tomorrow then just saying, 'my girlfriend told me she loved me and I think I love her too'." He says.

My heart feels like it has stopped.

"Just to clarify," I ask, "If I were to tell you 'I love you' in the future, you would…"

He smiles. "Depends on what we're doing. If we're alone—" he waggles his brows.

"I don't think my table can take much more." I say.

"You've got counters." He says this completely deadpan.

"I don't get you," I say. It's the honest truth, even if there's humor in it.

"You will. Hang in there long enough." He says.

"I guess I'll have to. Especially since I find myself in love with you."

Tommy pauses eating to lean over and kiss me. "Want cake?" he asks.

That is all the talking I am going to get out of him for now. I know a lost cause when I see one. I chose to eat cake instead. Despite being a tad bit structurally unsound, the dessert is pretty delicious. It is my turn to compliment him on his cooking skills and to delight when he turns bright red. We dump the dirty plates into my dishwasher and retire to my bedroom. We flip through the games for a while, sitting in quiet companionship. Tommy has me pulled flush to his side, as if any centimeter of space between us might be too much for him. I am leaning into his chest, listening to the sounds of the television and the beating of his heart. I am half asleep, exhausted from the day.

Vaguely I hear the sound of Tommy turning off the television. He moves over and I flop onto the pillows, too tired to move. The lights in my room flicker off and I feel Tommy pulling my comforter back. He slides us both under the warm blankets and drags me back into him. I snuggle into his side, grateful for his warmth and the fact that he's by my side. There is no chance of having to rush around in the morning and get ready for the real world. His family will not be coming over and necessitating that he leave. I do not have to interview him. It is simply us, together in bed, sleeping.

"Good night," I whisper to him.

"Night, Nicole." Tommy exhales into my hair. "I love you."

I fall asleep with a huge grin on my face.


	17. Chapter 17

The first nightmare I witness comes late Saturday night.

Tommy thrashing next to me in bed wakes me up. It takes a moment to process what is happening; I am pulled suddenly from sleep by a flurry of motion. I blink, trying to adjust my eyes to the darkness, still wondering what is happening. I reach out to find that Tommy is covered in sweat, his skin burning. I am immediately alert. His muscles are twitching under my hand, his legs whipping around like he's running. The covers are bunched around his waist, twisted in a knotted mess. I reach down to untangle him and he catches my hand hard. I try to pull back to no avail.

"Tommy," I stroke his hair with my free hand. When it does nothing to rouse him, I try again. "Baby!"

His eyes pop open. I am shocked by the panicked look on his face. His breathing is labored and he is still trembling. He desperately tries to place his surroundings.

"It's ok," I soothe, "you're ok."

He leans back and exhales hard.

"Shit," he breathes, letting go of me. "Did I hurt you?" he sits up to look at me.

"No," I assure him. "I'm fine. I'm fine." He looks unconvinced. I punctuate my statement by crawling into the cage of his arms.

We sit in silence, broken up only by the sound of Tommy's deep breathing.

"I thought that maybe, after therapy today, that I wouldn't…" he sighs.

"It's going to take a while." I whisper into his sleep warmed skin.

Tommy says nothing, just presses his face into my hair and inhales deeply. His breathing becomes more regulated. It is like he is melting into me, hot wax dripping down a candle. I gently press into him, lowering us back into the pillows. I sprawl out across his chest, just holding him. He is gripping me like I am a lifeline.

"Sorry I woke you up," he mumbles, falling back into sleep.

I kiss him at the temple. "Go back to sleep," I tell him.

He eventually drifts off, but I lay awake, keeping guard like a golden retriever, chasing away the bad dreams before they can get to him. He has no more fits on my watch. I begin to fall asleep as the light begins streaming through the cracks in my drapes. I vaguely reflect that my brother will arrive within an hour or so. I tell myself I will sleep for a moment or two, then get up and get ready.

When I wake up, the sun is high in the sky and half of my bed is empty, only an imprint betraying that I shared it at all. I sit up blearily, wondering what is going on. I glance at my bedside clock. In an instance I am panicked, leaping from my bed like a ninja, shoving my legs into clean pants and trying to coax my hair back into a ponytail. I grab the first shirt I come in contact with, a worn cotton one that belongs to Tommy. It practically drowns me, but I take comfort in the smell, like Old Spice and the mint gum he always chews and something that is uniquely him.

"Tommy?" I call. My brother was supposed to have arrived an hour ago. I want to prepare him for the possibility of meeting my family.

I follow the smell of coffee to my kitchen where Tommy is making eggs and toast.

"Morning," he greets in a deep voice.

I walk over and he pulls me into him and kisses me. I realize it is his way of thanking me for last night.

"My brother should be here soon." I say. "Let's not mention that you spent the night."

"So I just came over for breakfast at 7 in the morning on a Sunday?" Tommy looks skeptical.  
>"He's not going to buy that."<p>

"Maybe not." I acknowledge. "But that's what we're going to tell him." Tommy just laughs and shakes his head.

"All right." He says.

He is just beginning to spoon eggs onto one of my dinner plates when the doorbell rings. Before I can so much as move, Tommy is up and down the hall.

"Wait." I tell him. "I can-."

"I've got it," he says.

The look on my brother's face when Tommy swings my front door open is priceless. If the situation was not so dire, I might be tempted to run for my camera to capture the rare look of surprise on Mike's face. His wife, Angela, is behind him, fussing with my nephew Luke. They are all dressed as if they've been traveling, which of course, they have. Taking the red eye from Los Angeles has ensured that their little band has ended up on my front stoop early in the morning and in a terrible mood.

"Who are you?" Mike dispenses with the pleasantries and cuts to the point.

"Tommy Conlon," Tommy extends his hand nonchalantly. Mike does not take it.

"And you're at my sister's house because…?" Mike arches a curt eyebrow. It is like high school all over again when my first boyfriend dared to meet my brothers.

"Mike…" I warn, trying to shove Tommy out of the way and face my brother head on.

Tommy doesn't budge. He is not one to be intimidated. I can tell by the stubborn tilt of his stance and the slight smirk playing on his lips that he is fired up for a fight. Trouble is, my family is just as notoriously stubborn as he is.

"What do you think?" Tommy asks his own question in return.

"I've got no damn clue." Mike says. "But you've got no business being here this early in the morning. This is a family thing."

I suspect that Mike is running on very little sleep and very high stress. He is always been overprotective, but I am not some kid anymore. He knows I date, and occasionally even take a man home. But something about Tommy has got his hackles up.

"I'm her boyfriend." Tommy says at length.

"Mike," I begin, but my oldest brother holds his hand up for silence.

"He's that fighter guy." Mike says, staring hard. "You did a story on him."

"Exactly," I am praying that now that my brother has realized who Tommy is, he will calm down.

"So now you're sleeping with him?" Mike hisses in a low whisper.

It seems at last that Angela and Luke have realized that I am not the one who answered the door. Angela stares at Tommy in confusion but Luke immediately registers recognition.

"Holy shit!" Luke points openly, his mouth dangling uselessly.

Mike spins on him and smacks him lightly in the back of the head.

"What'd I say about cussing, damn it?" Mike chastises.

"Real nice, Mike." Angela moves between them.

"Angela, let's not start this again."

"It's Tommy Conlon!" Luke announces to no one in particular. Tommy graces him with a lopsided grin.

"What's up kid?" he extends his hand.

Luke grasps it excitedly. "Why are you here?"

"Doesn't matter. Your aunt's already got company and you're not staying with some stranger." Mike interjects.

Angela, Luke and I protest all at once.

"It's not a stranger." Angela insists. "It's your sister. You wanted to go on this vacation. Let's go!"

I am beginning to suspect that Angela might be the reason for my brother's foul mood. That and the fact that Luke is hyper and all wired up like a toddler. If what I witnessed in the past five minutes is any indication of what goes on at their home, Angela is fighting my brother on discipline tooth and nail.

Behind her, the driver of their cab honks, impatient. My brother and his wife do not notice. The honking continues, more frantically. Luke is begging to stay at the top of his lungs, Angela is raising her voice to be heard over her son, Mike is gesturing frenziedly, Tommy is watching in amusement and I am wondering what in the hell I have gotten myself into.

"Tommy," I tap his arm to instigate him to move over. Instead, he takes it as a sign to go out to the cab and grab the luggage out of the back.

"Hold on a minute!" Mike yells.

"Mike. He's my boyfriend." I yank him by the shoulder.

"Nicole, I didn't know you had company. I'm not going to leave Luke with some stranger." Of all the times for my brother to get overprotective this is most inopportune.

"He's not a stranger." I emphasize. "Luke is perfectly safe here. Tommy's going back home at the end of the day anyway. He won't be spending the night." Mike's face still looks unsure.

"I don't want Luke exposed to any…hanky panky." I resist the urge to burst out laughing. "He's been more interested in…" Mike hesitates, "adult relations lately."

Angela, finally, comes to her husband's aid. It seems that now that Mike has raised this point, she has concerns too. "We don't want to fuel the fire." She explains.

It takes all of my self control to not smile. "You think I'd just sleep with Tommy with my nephew in the house?"

Mike has the good grace to look ashamed. "No, I guess not."

"Go on your vacation." I say. "Enjoy yourself. I'll see you both next weekend. There won't be any," I finger quote, " 'hanky panky' in here."

We all turn to watch Tommy and Luke. My nephew is leaping around Tommy's ankles like a drunken puppy, all energy and nerves. He reaches out tentatively to take a swing. Tommy feints left, swipes his hand away and flips the preteen boy upside down. Luke begins laughing and squirming. Tommy deposits him down and shows him a defensive stance. They continue shadow boxing in my driveway.

"He's a fighter?" Mike asks.

"MMA," I confirm.

"A good guy?"

"The best." I say.

"We're going to miss our next flight," Angela reminds him gently.

"Go," I reiterate. "We'll be fine."

"Nicole," Mike pulls me to the side while his wife is busy with his son. "Luke is a handful." He tells me. When I raise an eyebrow, he amends his statement. "He's a little shit." He says.

"I can handle him." I say.

"But you shouldn't have to." His frustration is beginning to show. "It should be me and his mom. And maybe, if we spend some time as a family, Angela will back off a little bit. He's going to be a monster if we don't do something soon."

I feel a stab of pity for my brother. He is so obviously distressed that I forgive his earlier transgressions.

"You and Angela need to figure that out between you two. Take this week to do it. Luke will be fine. And maybe," I glance at my yard where Tommy is showing Luke a hold, "maybe Luke being with another man for a week isn't so bad. You know teens never listen to something their parents say. Remember us?"

Mike watches the scene unfold on the front lawn. "Maybe you're right." He sighs. "Sorry about—."

I wave it off. "Tommy is stubborn. You're stubborn. You'll both get over it."

In fact, Tommy is seemingly over it by the time he approaches my front door. He chats amicably with my brother and his wife about their vacation plans. Mike warms to him, if just a fraction. By the time they are back in the cab and driving down the road, I am relieved. Luke sprints into my house without pausing to grab his bags. I make a motion to take them, but Tommy reaches out and stills me.

"Don't." He instructs.

He follows Luke into the house. We find him standing by my kitchen counter, eating the eggs and toast Tommy made.

"What are you doing?" Tommy barks out. The noise is so sudden that I jump. Luke mirrors my motions.

"I'm hungry." He explains with a full mouth.

"You left your bag on the porch. You're going to go get it. Then you're going to clean up your mess and come back in here and help your aunt make more eggs." His tone leaves no room for argument. He sounds like a drill sergeant.

Luke regards him for a long time. I brace myself for some preteen sarcasm.

"All right," he agrees. He sets the plate down and walks out of the room. A moment later he returns with his bag. He sets it down on the floor. Tommy looks at him and arches an eyebrow. Luke picks his bag up again.

"Aunt Nicole, where do you want me to put this?" he asks.

Tommy and I hide our laughter as I show my nephew where he'll be staying.

We spend the next few hours in typical lazy Sunday mode. Luke is on his best behavior in Tommy's presence. They spend a few amicable hours playing video games and watching television. Tommy talks about fighting and Luke is a captive audience. It is comfortable, domestic. They go out in my frosted over yard to spar and return filthy and pink-cheeked but happy.

"Are you going to fight again?" Luke asks him over dinner.

My head snaps up. I am interested in this answer as well.

"Yeah. On New Year's." Tommy says. He meets my eyes over the table.

"Can I come?" Luke asks.

"If you're good, maybe you can sit with your aunt and my brother's family." Tommy wipes his mouth.

"Brendan Conlon?" Luke practically swoons.

Tommy just shakes his head, amusement playing faintly on his lips.

He heads out to his new truck late Sunday night. I want him to stay and he wants to stay, but other responsibilities demand that we part.

"Your nephew ain't that bad," he tells me. Luke is on the couch asleep in a food coma. "He's got nothing on Brendan and me when we were that age."

I just shake my head. "Thanks for helping with him."

He shrugs. "No problem. Between your family and mine, our kids are going to have some crazy relatives."

He makes this comment flippantly, as though we have been together for ages, as though he expects us to make it in the long run. I find myself grinning hugely at him.

"Drive safe." I say. Tommy has already changed the subject and I know better than to press it.

He nods. "See you soon."

He kisses me brusquely in my front driveway. "Love you."

He hops in his truck and drives off, leaving me standing in my freezing cold front yard, warm inside from my head to my toes.


	18. Chapter 18

It is hard to watch Tommy fight. It is different now that I am no longer an uninvolved third party; every blow an opponent deals him sends my stomach reeling, but Tommy seems unfazed. He attacks with the ferocity that has become his calling card. Still, guys do not go down as easily as they used to. His foes have his number now and they're at least making it a challenge for him. Tommy says he likes it that way.

I personally prefer the old method of him knocking men out in one or two blows.

Tess sympathizes. She is as much of a staple at Tommy's fights as I am. She and Brendan leave the girls at home with Paddy and they join me. My relationship with the Conlons is now public knowledge. I have not exactly been hiding the fact that we are friends and Tommy leaning out of the cage to kiss me after a big fight two months back was a dead giveaway. Twitter exploded for an hour and then it blew over. Aside from one or two female fanatics, no one seems to care who Tommy is sleeping with.

A particularly hard blow snaps Tommy's neck around and sprays blood across the mat. I am up on my feet, shouting angrily, torn between doing something absurd like climbing in the cage and bursting into tears. Tess is digging her fingernails into my arm, nearly as terrified as I am. Brendan is swearing indiscriminately. The only one who keeps their cool is Tommy. He recovers like it did not happen, and in one, two, three, four punches and a well-placed kick, his contester goes down hard. Tess and Brendan are cheering and jumping, but I am already ringside, reaching for Tommy. He grabs my hand in his sweat and blood-slicked fist and lifts me in with him. Even though he is bleeding, his eye is blacked and I think he might have chipped a tooth, he looks elated.

We gather around him in the locker room as a trainer mops him up. He finally smiles, away from cameras and spectators. Brendan laughs at the brand new gap between Tommy's front teeth.

"They weren't crooked enough for you already?" he asks with a chuckle.

"Figured it'd be easier than braces," Tommy grins, his teeth still stained red.

Tess and I simply shake our heads.

"So what's the next big move?" Brendan sits himself next to his little brother. They have an easy kind of relationship now, especially when their father is not around. I do not think it is any fault of Paddy's, but old hurts run deep and something about his presence sets both men on eggshells. Alone, you might never know they were ever estranged. They tease and laugh and I get a glimpse of what life might have been like between them before Tommy left.

"Sparta," Tommy answers, wiping his face with a wet towel. He dabs around the new stitches on his eyebrow gingerly. The white fabric comes away stained red. I try not to notice.

"Once wasn't enough?" Brendan snags the towel out of his brother's hands and wipes away some blood behind one of Tommy's ears.

"Figured it'd be good to have two Conlons win in a row." Tommy shrugs. "Besides," he continues. "I owe you 2 and a half million dollars. I don't like being in debt."

Brendan looks taken aback until Tommy begins laughing at his brother's expression. For his sarcasm, Tommy receives a rolled up wet towel to the face. They are punching each other in the arms and rolling on the bench like Tommy did not just get out of the ring a few minutes before. I am touched by the brotherly moment, but irritated that neither seems to remember that Tommy just got stitches. Sure enough, he tears two out, necessitating that the trainer be called back in. To hide my frustration, I call up my dentist and schedule the appointment I know Tommy will never make if I don't do it for him.

Once Tommy has been stitched and cleaned up, our little gang heads out to dinner. Tommy takes the time to call his Pop. The conversation seems a bit strained, but it is polite enough. I hear Tommy mumble the words "you too, Pop" and I know that Paddy has just told his son that he loved him. Tommy's emotional silence in the car ride confirms it. I reach over for his hand as we drive. I glimpse Tess noticing the gesture from the back seat. She smiles a private little grin for me in the rearview mirror as I navigate the streets of LA to my parent's favorite restaurant.

It will be the first time our families meet. Brendan and Tess jumped eagerly at the chance to come to California. I privately suspect that it has less to do with the prospect of meeting my parents and brothers and more that it's not snowing in Los Angeles. Still though, they seem more excited about it than Tommy. I'm hoping he's just nervous. He reverts to the stony stoicism that earned him his reputation. He only smiles again when we enter the restaurant and Luke begins waving at him excitedly.

"Conlon!" he grins like a fool, "good fight!" When he spots Brendan his excitement escalates. It takes several moments to calm him down enough to make introductions.

My parents, Dwayne and Linda are all smiles, though I notice my mom glancing at Tommy's bruised face worriedly. She's a registered nurse and a textbook worrier. I give her a look that I hope encourages her to wait until after dinner to pull my boyfriend aside and start talking about preventing infection in facial wounds.

My brother Mike greets Tommy with a mild sense of familiarity and his wife, Angela hugs him like an old friend. My other brothers, Steve and Mark, stay cool, though I know the both of them are MMA fans. Sure enough, when Tommy and Brendan turn around, they begin talking to each other in hushed, hurried tones. They will be asking for pictures by dessert. My brothers look like variations of one another. Mark, the youngest, is tallest by an inch or two but they are all over six feet tall, built like runners with black hair worn short. I catch a table of women shooting Mark and Steve interested looks that my brothers reciprocate.

"What?" Steve asks. "You're not the only one who can get some action around here." He gestures to Tommy.

"Looks like you beat the crap out of him," Mark observes. "It takes all the fun out of being a big brother if your little sister beats up her own boyfriend before you get a chance."

I shove him with a laugh and he wraps me in a headlock. The hostess casts us a worried look as she leads us to a private room in the back. My mom turns around and pins us both with her best "knock it the hell off" look. Even after all this time, it is still incredibly effective. Mark and I jump apart while Steve and Mike just laugh. Tommy gives us a weird look I cannot read. For some reason, it worries me.

We are seated in the back, away from prying eyes. My family falls into chairs in an established pattern. On one side it's Mark and I, the babies of the family, on the other it's Mike and Steve. Spaces are made for Tommy and Angela to squeeze in. Brendan and Tess fall on Mike's side and my parents squeeze together at one head of the table while Luke takes the other, conveniently placing himself with a Conlon brother on either side of him.

We banter back and forth about what to order, agreeing to fork over portions to one another so we can all get something different. My dad reflects that it would have been better to go to a restaurant that serves family sized portions. My mother counters that it would have been too easy to just do that and besides, it is a family tradition to share food. Steve bullies me into ordering chicken parmesan over lasagna so he can have a bite.

Conversation is carried mostly by my clan, though Tess is contributing and Brendan is certainly making an effort. Tommy is sitting there with an expression that suggests nausea. I draw his attention to me subtly.

"You ok, baby?" I whisper as our food is brought out.

"Yeah," he mumbles. "Just dizzy is all."

I know he is lying, but I do not push it. My dad tries to stimulate some conversation from him, but is rewarded with curt, one or two word answers. I feel my temper flare and even Brendan shoots his brother a warning look. The only one Tommy is cordial with is Luke. My nephew is happily spurting fighting stats and training tips, begging both Conlon brothers for their opinions and tips. He has came leaps and bounds from a few months ago. Mike called a week after Christmas to let me know that he and Angela had reached some agreement. Luke has joined his school's wrestling team and with it, has found a discipline he previously was lacking.

Besides his comments to Luke, Tommy is focused almost entirely on his dinner. I wonder silently whether or not he is just shy. He has never been this overtly rude with anyone. While my family debates tiramisu over cheesecake, the Conlon's and I take a moment to address the problem with Tommy. He and Brendan have some sort of silent conversation. Brendan excuses them both, and with a smile he drags his little brother off. Tess shoots me a worried look and then shrugs.

"Brendan will sort him out." She says quietly. She jumps into the great dessert debate, throwing her support behind tiramisu.

"What's wrong with your man?" Mike leans over to whisper to me. I have to admit I do not know. Steve leans forward to join the conversation. He is in grad school, studying psychology.

"He didn't have the best childhood. Maybe he's uncomfortable seeing how close we all are." Steve says simply.

The minute the words leave his mouth, I know it must be true. I debate going to find Tommy but a moment later he and Brendan rejoin us.

"We have to get ice cream if we get cake," he says casually as he falls in the chair next to me. My whole family tactfully hides their shock.

"The man knows how to order dessert," my mom praises.

Steve shoots me a knowing look when Tommy is not watching. I'll need to talk to Tommy later but whatever Brendan said outside must have done the trick for now. We make it all the way to dessert and the parking lot without a hitch. Tommy doesn't apologize, but my family lets it slide. He smiles lopsidedly at them as we pile back into our cars to follow my parent's home. They insisted that while we were in town we stay with them. On the drive back I say nothing, choosing not to push the issue in front of an audience. It isn't until we have been given a tour of the house (it has not changed much since my youth) and my parents and Brendan and Tess excuse themselves for bed that I breach the subject.

"So what was the issue at dinner?" we are outside in my parents' backyard, enjoying a warm breeze.

Tommy cracks his neck and stares at me for a moment. I do not back down. After several minutes of silence, he gives in.

"I just got nervous." He tells me.

"And?" I know that was not the only issue.

"And…I'm not used to family stuff like that." He admits.

"So why didn't you just tell me that?" I ask. Tommy shoots me a look. "Right…" I say. "You're still not the best at talking."

Tommy nods in agreement. He begins to pick at his stitches and I yank his hand down and hold it in my own.

"Brendan pointed out that I looked like an asshole." He continues. "I'm sorry. I didn't think about it. I just did what I always do when I'm nervous."

"The strong, silent, broody thing." I say. He laughs a little. "Are you ok now?" I ask.

He shrugs, focusing on our hands. "I don't know. Your family is just really different from mine. Your house, your brothers…your parents."

He has gotten to the root of the problem.

"I'm sorry it upsets you." I say. I honestly am sorry that my family points out the glaring issues his own has.

"Your mom reminds me of my ma." He says. "I guess it just makes me…."

Neither of us finishes his sentence. The tears running silently down his cheek are words enough. He curses softly as the saltwater reaches his wounds. I brush the moisture away gently and crawl into his lap. We sit silently in a deck chair, listening to the breeze.

"I'll do better tomorrow," he promises me.

I kiss him and offer up a small smile. "Next time you're uncomfortable, just tell me ok?"

He laughs bitterly, "I'll be telling you a lot then." He brushes a stray strand of hair out of my face. "I'll be ok. It gets better every day."

I nod. It has gotten better. His nightmares are becoming fewer and far between. He smiles more readily now (unless he's in the ring) and he's more eager to spend time with his family. The last few months have been baby steps, but they are all in the right direction.

"Come on," I pat his knee. "I need to show you where you're sleeping."

He raises an eyebrow. "I'm not with you?"

"My parents are old fashioned." I explain.

Tommy looks thoughtful. "Then we need to go to the car for a minute." When I look confused, he continues. "I've got some things in mind for us to do before we're banished to our separate rooms."

"Maybe tomorrow," I tell him, laughing. "I don't want you to rip your stitches." He gets a look like a petulant child. "Besides, tomorrow we can go to the beach. I know some secluded spots."

He goes willingly to bed after that, grinning his brand new, gap-toothed smile. I retire to my childhood bedroom, glad for the familiarity of home and for a moment away from Tommy. I love him, but sometimes it is exhausting keeping up with his mood swings. I hope we have nipped his funk, but time will tell. It's going to be a long weekend if he is in a bad mood the entire time. I am scared of what my parents think of him now. Their approval, even in my adulthood, is important to me. Hopefully, Tommy didn't blow it with them.


	19. Chapter 19

**Author's Note: Thanks for all the positive feedback! Here's another chapter!****  
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><p>I come down the stairs in the morning to find Tommy laughing happily at the dining table with my parents. He looks a mess—the bruises from yesterday have turned a sickly kind of yellow, his stitches cut a jagged path through his eyebrow and when he laughs, he looks like a hillbilly. Still, he is putting in the effort he promised me last night. He has clearly just come from running. His shirt is sweated through and he's in a pair of sweat pants I'd rather he left at home. But whatever he is saying to my parents has them all in peals of laughter.<p>

"Morning, babe," he greets me. As I sit down, he slides a mug of tea at me.

"Good morning," I smile at my parents, silently questioning what they're talking about.

"Tommy here was just telling us about how you first met." My dad says.

"Yes, it seems you stalked him for an interview?" my mother smiles.

"More or less." I admit. "He was playing hard to get."

Tommy's grin widens. "Had to make you work for it, babe."

My parents continue to laugh at this. Tommy excuses himself to take a shower. I am left alone with my mom and dad. I brace myself.

"So," my dad begins, pouring me a bowl of Frosted Flakes like he did when I was little, "he seems nice."

"The majority of the time, yes." I affirm.

"Only the majority?" my mother is alarmed.

"He's not angry or abusive or anything, but he has PTSD. It manifests itself at inconvenient times." I say. There has never been any point in lying with my parents. They normally know things before I tell them anyway. My father proves this with his next statement.

"Dinner?" my dad asks. I nod and briefly explain the situation. They know the outline of what Tommy's life has been to this point from television.

"Have you talked to Steve about it?" my mom asks.

"Once or twice over the phone." After Tommy suffered a series of terrifying nightmares a month or so back, I panicked and called my brother. He talked me down over the phone, explaining that even with therapy, these things were normal and the only thing I could do was be there for him. I echo his advice to my parents now.

My dad nods sagely. "That's quite a project you've taken on, hon."

"If you don't mind us asking, how did you get involved?" my mom asks.

I explain the story from the beginning, tactfully leaving out our first time together in Arlington. My parents listen, interjecting here and there for clarification.

"You always did like to help," my dad chuckles quietly.

"You know that you can't fix anyone, sweetheart?" my mom asks, not unkindly.

"He's in therapy." I say pointblank. "And fighting is constructive for him."

"It's going to take years. And even then, there are going to be hard times." My dad warns.

"Everyone goes through hard times," I say. My mom cocks an eyebrow in agreement. "Our situation is…unique." I search for the right word. "But we love each other."

"Well," my mom smiles, "that's what really counts then."

I notice that they still look worried as they leave the kitchen table. I want to ask them why, but Tommy finishes his shower and reemerges.

"Want to go to the beach?" he asks.

An hour later finds us at El Matador Beach. It's a secluded spot, possibly the only one left in the LA area. It's a rocky beach and a bit lonely, with none of the glitz and glam of Santa Monica or Venice. It suits our purpose perfectly. Brendan and Tess opted for a day in Hollywood, leaving Tommy and I alone. We pick through rocks until we get to the sandy stretch that marks the beachfront. Tommy immediately wants to plunge in. I warn him that the water will be cold, but he shakes me off and dives in headfirst. A moment later he resurfaces, yelping. I smile and shake my head and stubbornly refuse to pull a beach towel out for him to run into.

"You need to learn a lesson." I tell him.

"And what is that?" he asks, shaking water out of his ears. His whole body is prickling with chill.

"Listen to me," I say.

He just laughs and shakes out his wet hair. "Shit," he curses, "that salt water stings."

I roll my eyes and start off down the beach. He follows. The sun is blessedly out, and he dries off quickly. He reaches for my hand as we traipse through the sand. He's quiet, as usual, but it is a comfortable silence. I enjoy our time alone together, reflecting that we haven't had time like this in a while.

Tommy seemingly reads my thoughts. "When's the last time it was just you and me?" he asks.

"A few weeks now." I say. Work has been hectic, for both of us. And now, with him training for Sparta, it will likely be months before we have any significant time alone.

"We gotta work on that." He says. I do not respond. "What's wrong?"

I cannot put my finger on it. It is a combination of things, stress from work, stress from Tommy, the thought that there is a lot more stress in our foreseeable future. Suddenly, I am tearing up right then and there. I suppose it is my turn to be an emotional basket case. Tommy pulls me under his arm tightly and steers me into a cluster of huge boulders. They form a cavern of sorts, allowing a view of the water but providing shelter from the sun and onlookers.

"Nicole," he begins, pulling my face up to his, "what's the problem?"

"I don't know," I sob. I feel like an idiot.

"You still mad at me for last night?" he asks.

I shrug.

"You're upset about not seeing each other?" he tries again. This time I give a tiny nod.

Tommy reaches for my bag, pulls my giant beach towel out and spreads it over the sand. He drags us both down onto it. I try to pull myself together. Tommy wraps me in the cage of his arms, pulling me hard to his bare chest. It is still cool and salt slicked from his dive into the ocean.

"We're going to be ok, you know?" he whispers in my ear. It is less of a question and more of a statement. The moment the words pass his lips, I realize that is what I've been worried about.

"Sometimes it's hard." I confess.

"I'm hard headed," he says casually. "And you're just as stubborn. But the good thing is, most of the time, only one of us is being super emotional." To illustrate his point, he brushes the tears off of my face.

"You've got today. I've scheduled my breakdown for next Wednesday. Just a head's up." He says.

I wipe my face. "You really think we're going to make it?" I ask.

He fixes me with a hard stare. "We better. I've made plans and I don't feel like changing them." It's not the most romantic of sentiments, but it peaks my interest.

"Plans for what?" I ask.

"Hang in there and find out." He says. He winds his fingers into the thick ropes of my hair, massaging my scalp. The motion is relaxing and I sigh, feeling the stress ebb out of me.

"I love you," I say quietly.

"Even when I'm being a dick?" he asks.

"Maybe a little less then, but yes." I say.

He smiles. "I love you too."

"Even when I cry for no reason?"

"You never cry for no reason." He says. He leans forward and gently kisses me.

"Then what do I cry about?"

"Normally, you cry for me." He says simply. "It's nice to have someone who cares enough to cry for you."

I stare at him and he meets my gaze. It is his way of thanking me, I realize, for putting up with his mood swings and issues.

"There's far more good in you than bad." I say. I need him to know this.

He looks skeptical but says, "The longer I'm with you, the more good there seems to be."

I smile at him, feeling my heart swell. We are on an emotional rollercoaster, but there is no one I'd rather ride it with. I tell him so.

Tommy grins at my change in mood and flops backward onto the towel, dragging me down with him. It is still early in the day so the sun isn't high in the sky yet. It is almost chilly under the shade of the boulders, but Tommy keeps me pressed closely to his side. I absentmindedly trace the scars and tattoos on his skin, drifting in and out of sleep and listening to the sounds of the ocean. It is still technically winter here so we are alone on the beach. Seagulls wheel overhead almost lazily. It is calm, quiet and comfortable.

It is not long before Tommy leans over and begins brushing kisses across my lips. I reciprocate eagerly, enjoying the languorous motions he makes against me. It has been months, I feel, since we just kissed. Usually, it is followed in a hurry with sex, the length of our separations making us desperate for one another. But now it is just the two of us, with no schedule to rush off to. We take our time with one another, exploring like it is new, like we have never been together before. His hands map out the curves of my body—the arch of my back, the swell of my hips, the planes of my stomach. His lips barely skim my skin, leaving a cool sensation that tingles all the way to my core. He drops a kiss right below my belly button, tickling me. I succumb to giggles. He continues to assault my sides and my laughter escalates. I manage to wrap my legs around his waist and use him as leverage to roll the two of us over so that I am straddling him. He could easily flip us back, but he rests his hands on my hips and smirks up at me expectantly.

I lean over, creating a curtain of hair that shields both of our faces. I make as though to kiss him, but turn my head at the last moment. He groans in disappointment, but then makes sounds of encouragement as I move to nibble his ear lobe. I take my time, kissing every scar, every mark on his body. There are a lot of them, but I commit to my task. From neck to waist, I kiss the pain away until I reach the hem of his trunks. They are still damp from his earlier dip.

"Nicole," his voice is strained. "You're killing me here."

"What do you mean?" I feign innocence. When he lifts an eyebrow, I sit up and casually rock my hips into his. He strains up towards me.

"Babe…" he warns. He can only take so much of my teasing. But after last night, he owes me one. I place a hand on his chest and press down, cautioning him to be still. He settles down but looks at me hard. I can tell he is out of his comfort zone. Good.

I fiddle with the laces of his swim suit, toying with the fabric but not untying it. Tommy grips my waist tighter and pulls me forward into him a bit. His whole body is tight and hard as a bow, every muscle on alert. I run my fingers under his waistband then halt. Tommy sighs in frustration.

"Tell me what you want." I instruct. He looks at me like I've lost my mind. I don't relent.

"You," he says plainly.

His right hand moves to the back of my neck and he jerks my head down, melding his lips to mine in a searing kiss. By the time he allows me to pull back, I am trembling all over. I have lost all dexterity; I fumble with the laces of his shorts before his calloused hands join mine, making short work of the knot. It briefly crosses my mind that we are in public and if someone was to walk by, they would be treated to a whole lot more of us then I might want them to see. The thought flees as my shirt gets tugged over my head. My skin prickles in the shade, but Tommy runs his hands over my skin, undoing my bikini top. I had put a lot of care into choosing it this morning, settling on a black suit with gold trim. It does not seem to matter now. The fabric gets tossed somewhere to the side of us.

"I want you," he repeats, sitting up and pressing his face into my chest.

I have lost the ability to make any sounds that aren't plaintive moans of pleasure. He lavishes attention on me until I feel like a puddle of nerves. Our chests are pressed flush against one another as we move. It is a slow pace, almost lazy. The sound of the ocean keeps tempo until Tommy seems to lose control. The rough fabric of the towel is suddenly pressed into my back and I am treated to the sight of the blue of the sky before it is replaced with Tommy's face. We come to a roaring crescendo, collapsing on each other in the sand.

"This'll be a good story for the therapist on Monday," Tommy says into my shoulder a few minutes later.

I shake with laughter. "Maybe let's keep this one to ourselves. Deal?" I ask.

"Deal." He kisses me again.

We are both tan and beaming when we return in the late evening. We stop by Hollywood to pick up Brendan and Tess. As they hop into the car, Brendan takes a long look at the two of us.

"Have fun?" he asks, his tone making it clear that he knows exactly how much fan we had.

Tommy just smacks him in the back of the head. As we drive down the road, he smiles conspiratorially at me.

I just wink.


	20. Chapter 20

**Author's Note: Thanks for all the positive feedback and reviews! You guys are great! If you haven't reviewed yet, please drop a line and let me know what you think. Thank you!****  
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><p>It is finally warm enough in Philadelphia to go outside and Tommy is taking full advantage. He, Brendan and Paddy are in an open field near the train tracks, running around and working out using tires big enough to lie comfortably in. Normally, I try to stay away from training sessions; it is Tommy's domain and with Sparta coming up, he needs to focus. But today is a special occasion. Tommy is turning 30. I promised not to make a big deal of it. He insists he doesn't want a fuss. I was all for the quiet dinner until Brendan let it slip that Tommy hasn't had a birthday party since he turned 10.<p>

20 years is far too long to go without having someone celebrate your birth. So I have resolved to make an attempt to give my man a happy birthday. It has been difficult trying to balance my desires with Tommy's. If it were up to me, he'd come home to a house packed full with friends and family screaming "surprise!" at the top of their lungs. There would be cake and presents and music and more food than is necessary. But these things are not Tommy. So I found an alternative.

I watch Tommy and his brother dive in and out of the middle of the tires, flipping the rubber over with grunts and groans. I am reminded vaguely of _Rocky_ and the training montage. They are both covered in grease, sweat and dirt. Paddy stands nearby and shouts orders at the two of them. It is the closest that the three of them will get to male bonding. It is the only time I have seen them all cooperate without an awkward moment or a fight. Paddy barks orders at his boys and they jump, pushing their muscles to the limit. Even though Brendan is not fighting anymore he seems to take great pleasure in training with his little brother. I know Tommy likes it too, though he will not outwardly show it. He and his brother work on Tommy's technique, trying to up his game and give him an unexpected edge.

I glance at my watch. If they do not wrap up soon, we will be cutting it close.

"Bored, babe?" The men take a water break. I quickly try to cover.

"You could at least be shirtless," I tease. Tommy smirks. Brendan shakes his head.

"My God, you two are like rabbits." He says.

Paddy grumbles. "You're going to have to put a lid on that before Sparta. Can't have you worn out."

I cannot decide if this is a joke or an actual command but Brendan smoothes the situation over by laughing uproariously. Tommy looks slightly irritated, but Brendan ribs him, drawing a smile.

"It's about time to get back," Brendan looks at his phone. "The girls are waiting."

"One more round?" Tommy is already moving off back towards the tires. Brendan moves to follow him, but I reach out and grab his ankle. He turns in surprise, mouth open to protest. I quickly shake my head, trying to convey what I need with my eyes.

"Tommy's birthday." I mouth at him. He does not seem to understand.

Paddy's gruff voice surprises me. "Let's wrap it up. This old man's tired."

I am profoundly grateful. I catch Paddy's eye and he winks at me. I am not the only one who wants to do something nice for Tommy.

"You got something special planned?" he whispers as we walk back to the car.

"Manny's family is coming," I say.

Paddy's eyes widen. "Pilar and the kids?"

"They should be here in a little bit. I have to pick them up."

Paddy nods, lost in thought. "You go do that then. I'll clean the boys up and make sure they end up in the right place."

"What place?" I was planning on just going to a restaurant.

"Mine." He says. His eyes focus on Brendan and Tommy who are wrestling each other to the asphalt in the parking lot. "Think you can get a cake?" he asks.

"And ice cream." I say. "We'll be over there by 7:30." I smile at my conspirator.

"Been a while since we had a party…feels about time to change that." Paddy says, though he does not seem to be talking to me anymore.

"You guys coming?" Brendan calls to us. He is got Tommy in a headlock.

"If you promise not to strangle my boyfriend!" I shout back. Tommy redoubles his efforts to break free. Brendan doesn't relent.

"You better come save him then." Brendan challenges.

"Brendan, let the boy see his 30th birthday," Paddy does not raise his voice but his sons still snap apart and come to attention.

"Sorry Pop," Tommy says. But the moment his father slides into the car, he punches Brendan as hard as he can in the arm.

"You're coming back to hang out?" Tommy asks as I get into my own car.

"I promise." He yanks me to him, getting sweat all over me. I squirm away, swatting at him playfully. "Go shower!"

"All right, all right…" he brushes a kiss over my forehead.

I watch them drive off before getting in my own car and haul to the airport. I make it just as my phone begins to ring.

"I'm here," I maneuver my car into the merry-go-round that is airport traffic.

I am suddenly nervous. I have never met Pilar or her children face-to-face. The handful of phone conversations we have had have been pleasant. But still, she is a part of Tommy's life that I am unfamiliar with, a throwback to the days before we met. I have never seen them together. I do not know what to expect. I hope that Tommy will be pleased, but he might be saddened by their presence, by the memory of a friend that was taken from him.

I spot the little family standing on the corner with their bags. Pilar is looking around expectantly. I honk my horn, making her jump. She waves, visibly relieved. It takes longer than I would have thought to get the two booster seats into the back of my car. Her children are adorable—the oldest is a precocious 6 year old girl named Nina. Her mother has her hair plaited into two long black braids down her back. She smiles at me in that shy way that children do, politely offering up her little hand to shake mine. Her little brother, a two year old, is named Manny after his father. He is a chubby cheeked little cherub with dark eyes. He regards me coolly, as though he's not sure what to make of me.

"Tommy doesn't know we are here?" Pilar asks me as we navigate our way back into traffic.

"I want to surprise him." I smile at her. She just nods.

From the corner of my eye, I can see Pilar studying me. Her stare unnerves me. I so desperately want to impress her, this lady who Tommy speaks so highly of, almost as though she is family. I need her to like me, to give me her stamp of approval. I feel as though this is crucial. I am being weighed and measured. I hope I am not found lacking.

"How long have you two been together?" she asks conversationally.

"We met last June. But we've been together since he came back, so over 6 months now." As I say this out loud, the significance of the thing hits me. Tommy and I are in that space where, at our age, you commit or cut your losses.

"He's never dated anyone that long before." Pilar says.

"Really?" I wonder where she is going with this.

"Or so Manny told me," she says.

I can think of nothing to say to this. I just nod. The silence resumes.

"He speaks very highly of you, you know?" she asks a moment later. "He doesn't do that with anyone else. I've barely heard him talk about his family."

"So what does he talk about?" I ask in my journalist tone.

"He asks about us, mostly. You'd think after 2 and half million dollars he wouldn't feel the need to check on us anymore, but he does. He promised Manny, you know?" she turns around to correct the behavior of her children, who are kicking one another in the back seat.

Something about the reverence in her voice sets me on edge. She is fond of Tommy, that much is obvious. Hollywood plotlines of the grieving widow falling for her husband's best friend swarm my head. For half a moment, I regret bringing her here. I chance a glance at Pilar. She is smiling softly at her children. She is a pretty woman. Her dark hair is sleek and shiny, pulled half up and half down, highlighting nice cheek bones and full lips. She is dressed not like a millionaire, but still quite nice. It is clear she takes pride in her appearance but there is certain sadness in her eyes that she cannot hide. It would be incredibly difficult, being in her situation. Tommy is her biggest shoulder to lean on, a connection to her husband. They are friends united in grief, I tell myself. It is a powerful connection, but Tommy is in love with me, not her.

I repeat this to myself as we stop at the grocery store to buy ice cream. We let the kids select their favorite flavors, making small talk about the weather, the economy, anything but the past.

"The kids are excited to see their Tio Tommy," she tells me as we head to checkout.

"He'll be glad to see them too." I say. "He's always talking about them."

"I always thought Tommy would have little ones by now," Pilar muses. She glances at me quickly, then back down at our cart. "Do you want kids?" Manny Jr. swings around her calf, begging for Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.

"One day." I say.

She just nods. My feelings of unease continue. We continue on to Paddy's house. Pilar is holding the ice cream and I have the cake. I notice that Brendan's family and Tommy already seem to be here. I pause, trying to figure out the best way to get into the house. We could barge straight in, shouting surprise, or maybe just come in the backdoor and sneak up on Tommy. I'm deciding that that is the best plan when the front door comes bursting open.

"Pilar?" Tommy's hair is still damp from his recent shower, but that does not stop him from plunging outside, practically running at us.

The ice cream is suddenly thrust into my arms and on top of the cake and Pilar rushes to meet Tommy. He catches her in a hug, swinging her off of her feet. The kids take off after her, tackling him at the knees. They look like one big, happy family. I force myself to smile.

"What are you guys doing here?" he asks, smiling so brightly that his face looks likely to split down the middle.

"For your birthday," Pilar tells him. I notice she doesn't mention who invited her here.

"Happy Birthday, Tio Tommy," Nina says in her quiet voice. Tommy swoops her up, settling her on his hip like an old pro. He begins talking to her in that tone adults use when interacting with kids. She giggles excitedly back.

I stand on the outskirts, wanting to move in but having no idea how to tactfully do so. Tess appears in the doorway, looking questioningly outside. Her girls huddle behind her, inspecting their potential playmates.

"Need help?" Tess calls out to me. She's like a savior.

"Sure," I say, a little too happily. I rush to the front door, eager to put distance between myself and the scene behind me.

I should be happy, I tell myself as introductions are made. My birthday gift is a hit. Everyone is stationed in the living room, chatting loudly, asking questions. I am seated on the arm of the couch, balancing precariously. Pilar is next to Tommy, beaming. Manny is on his lap, Nina on hers. Brendan is asking about their trip, asking about their house in Texas. I smile at it all, my lips frozen. The only one who seems to notice this is Tess. She makes pointed eye contact with me.

"Want to get the cake ready?" she asks.

I nod and walk off to the kitchen to join her. The door swings shut behind us. She glances back at it, as if she can still see her family through the wood.

"Are you ok?" she asks. We make no motion to get the desserts out.

I swallow. It would be easier to lie and say that I'm just tired. I feel sick with jealously and uncertainty. I know nothing about that woman in the living room, that connection to Tommy's past that I have no link to. I'm used to being his support group, his number one girl, the only woman he's affectionate with. It's a selfish impulse, but I can't shake it.

"I think I'm jealous," I blurt out.

To her credit, Tess doesn't judge. Instead she smiles, shrugs and looks back at the door.

"If someone was sitting that closely to Brendan, I'd be jealous too." She confides. "We'll watch her." She tells me.

I feel grateful for an ally.

"Thanks," I say.

"You'd do the same for me." She moved to the freezer. "Now paste that smile back on. We've got cake to serve."

We reemerge, my smile a trifle less forced. Pilar is still too close to Tommy for comfort, but I resolve not to let it bother me. I push down the feeling of butterflies and open my mouth to sign the birthday song.


	21. Chapter 21

**Author's Note: I'm on an updating role. Thanks for all the positive feedback and reviews! You guys are great! If you haven't reviewed yet, please drop a line and let me know what you think. Thank you!****  
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><p>"You ok, babe?" Tommy leans over to me. His voice startles me awake.<p>

I have been drifting in and out of sleep. We are in Paddy's miniscule backyard, stationed in uncomfortable plastic lawn chairs. The air still has that chilly bite characteristic of the months before summer really gets into swing. I am huddled under a thin blanket, my legs pulled up under me. My feet fell asleep ten minutes ago, but I am too cold to move them. It is a testament to how much cake and ice cream I ate that my food coma is able to overcome such discomfort. Brendan and Tess took the girls home two hours ago, but Pilar, Tommy and I have been talking. Or rather, they have been talking and until recently, I was listening.

"Just tired," I smile at him. I hope that he will suggest that we head back to his place to go to sleep, or at least go upstairs to his childhood bedroom.

"You should go on inside," Pilar says. "We'll be fine." She smiles innocently at me. Her legs are crossed and she looks perfectly composed, despite the hour.

I take a long look at her, then the six pack of beer sitting between us and the expectant expression on Tommy's face.

"I'm ok." I say, sitting up and resolving to stay awake.

I smooth my hair nervously, trying to coax it back into a presentable style. It is hard to feel sexy in a lawn chair, especially one in the slums of Pittsburgh. Pillar seems to be pulling it off though. If she is cold in her shorts, she does not show it. She leans forward, sipping her beer daintily, happy for a break from being a mom. Tommy is lounging in his nonchalant way, his muscular arms exposed in the tank top he is wearing. His hair has grown out; it is a tad bit shaggy on the top and in no particular style. It gives him a youthful look, a contrast to his tattoos and rippling biceps.

They continue trading stories about the past, talking about Manny. The subject fascinates me. I listen, forming a more complete picture of who this man might have been in my mind. From Tommy's accounts, he was a prankster, the man who made everything more fun just by being there. Pilar paints a similar picture, but adds some intimacies, what kind of a father he was, how much he loved his children. I listen to how Tommy and Manny met in basic training, how they were tasked with sparring in front of their regiment. Tommy blacked Manny's eye and Manny split Tommy's lip and they became instant friends. Tommy was best man at Manny and Pilar's wedding, godfather to their son and practically family.

I close my eyes again, content with just listening. I have no stories of my own to contribute anyway. The talk turns to inside jokes and I roll to my side, snuggling into the arm rest. Perhaps they assume that I have fallen asleep, because the conversation takes an intimate turn.

"I'm just so lonely sometimes," Pilar confesses, "It's hard."

"Manny wouldn't want you to be alone." Tommy's voice has reverted to that tone he uses when something is bothering him. It's far away and distance.

"I'm a mother of two. It's not exactly easy to get back in the game," she chuckles wryly.

"Gorgeous as you are, it can't be that hard." I hear Tommy gulp his beer. I ignore the compliment; after all, Tommy has said much nicer things to me.

"Men who want to be fathers to someone else's kids are few and far between." She says.

"Maybe you need to just go out and get an itch scratched." Tommy says. "Call a babysitter, put on some heels, get back out there."

"I wouldn't even know how to do that. Manny and I met in high school."

"The game hasn't changed so much since then. Hike your skirt up, see what happens." I cannot tell if Tommy is joking or not, but Pilar laughs.

"Is that how she got you?" she asks.

"I think she had a skirt on, but she wasn't trying to seduce me."

"What was she trying to do?"

"Interview me." He says.

"Ah, she's one of those." I am guessing Pilar doesn't watch ESPN.

"One of what? It's her job. I gave her shit but she didn't give up. It worked out."

"I didn't expect you to have a girl so soon." She says. I get the feeling that they are both looking at me.

"Oh yeah? Why?" Tommy asks the question I want to blurt out. I focus on looking asleep.

"Well," I can hear her shifting around. "Whenever you came around, it was always you and Manny. And if you did meet a girl, it never lasted more than a night."

Tommy laughs. "Give me some credit. A few of them made it through a whole weekend."

My stomach clenches.

"Either way," I can almost see her rolling her eyes; her tone conveys her emotions so well. "It surprises me that you're all committed now. And to someone so…different from your usual."

"You'd rather her be a bimbo?"

"No. She just seems so classy."

She is essentially implying that we are in different leagues. I feel my temper heat up, but to jump up and yell now would be highly inappropriate. For a long moment there is tense silence. I contemplate opening my eyes, but then I hear her speak again.

"She's good to you?"

"The best." Tommy sounds completely confident. I am supremely grateful.

"She knows how much baggage you come with, right?"

"What's that mean?" he sounds defensive.

"Well, Manny used to be different when he came back. And he didn't have half the stuff you dealt with before you even went into the Marines. It's hard to watch someone you love go through all that…"

"She knows." Tommy clips out.

"And she's ok with it?"

"Obviously."

"I'm not trying to offend you," Pilar says.

"It's fine. I'm just wondering what you're asking."

"Tommy, you're so good with making sure the kids and I are taken care of. I'm just making sure someone's taking care of you." Her voice is soft, imploring.

"She takes care of me. Probably too well." Tommy says.

"Good. You deserve it."

I know without seeing that Tommy is blushing. Any kind of compliment makes him uncomfortable.

"You need someone too. Someone who's closer than I am."

"Eh, one day, maybe. The hurt is too fresh." Pilar sounds so sad that I want to cry. I feel ashamed of my earlier jealousy.

The silence resumes. I hear the two of them scooting around, clinking bottles.

"I better toss this. I don't want Pop to see." Tommy says. It signals the end of the conversation.

"I've got it." Pilar tells him. "Put your woman to bed."

"Think it's too late for birthday sex?" Tommy asks, nearly laughing. He has successfully turned the conversation away from the serious.

I hear Pilar smack him on the arm. Tommy's laughter escalates. I consider it safe to open my eyes. I smile sleepily at them.

"Sorry; I guess it was just a long day." I say.

Pilar yawns. "I don't blame you. I think I'm going to head to bed," she looks at Tommy.

"First door on the right at the top of the stairs." He directs her to the guest room. I shake my head at his lack of home training.

"I'll take you." I offer.

"See you up there babe. Night, Pilar." Tommy sets about throwing away bottles.

I lead her up the stairs. Now that the two of us are alone, I want to confront her about her opinions on me. I go through a few scenarios in my mind, trying to come up with a tactful way to broach the subject.

"So you and Tommy are close?" I ask.

"Not until Manny died," she answers.

"He seems to take really good care of you. I'm glad you could come out for his birthday."

Pilar nods. "It is good to see him again. I missed him. So did the kids." She pushes the bedroom door open.

Nina and Manny Jr. are already asleep in one of the twin beds in the guest room. Pilar looks warmly at them.

"They're beautiful." I compliment her. The sight of the two children snuggled in bed siphons the anger right out of me. She is a single mom in a shit situation. The last thing she needs is me picking a fight. I am reminded of the bursts of anger Tommy sometimes has, the things he can say when he is having an episode. Everyone needs someone to vent to. I'm Tommy's lifeline. Tommy is hers.

"They're just like their papa," she smoothes Manny's hair.

"It must be hard," I whisper. "Even just dealing with Tommy sometimes…" I trail off, searching for words.

"You're never the same after war." She says. "Tommy, God when he came back without Manny," she begins to tear up. I am frozen, unsure what to do. "He was so guilty, you know? I thought he was going to do something stupid, hurt himself…"

I swallow thickly. "He loved your husband."

"I know." She sniffles. "We have that in common."

Silence hangs heavy in the air, suffocating us.

"He's getting better," I say. "Every day, he improves."

She nods. "You're good for him." She sounds upset, almost jealous.

"I love him." It is a simplified explanation, but nevertheless, it is the point I want to make. I am staking my claim. Tommy, despite whatever his relationship is with Pilar, is mine. The point is nonnegotiable.

She smiles weakly at me. "Good night," It is as polite of a dismissal as she can muster.

"Good night." I say. If we knew one another better, I might hug her, offer some lukewarm words of comfort. As it stands though, we are nearly strangers. And I have a broken man of my own upstairs waiting for me.

I trudge up the stairs, all the way to the attic room that once belonged to Tommy. I sit down on the narrow twin bed, so lost in thought that I don't hear Tommy's feet coming up the stairs.

He vaults straight over my head, landing hard on the bed behind me. I jump, startled.

"Damn, you really are tired." Tommy's hands encircle my waist. "I thought you were using that as an excuse."

"An excuse for what?" I lay backwards across his torso.

"To listen in on our conversation." He smiles at me. "You were pretty slick there, sweetheart, but I saw you." He echoes his words from our first meeting months ago. I do not even muster the strength to act ashamed.

"Sorry, I just thought it'd be awkward if I opened my eyes in the middle of all that." He shrugs, unconcerned. "Besides, Pilar seemed like she had some things to talk about she didn't want me to hear. Did she notice I was awake?"

He shakes his head. "She's too wrapped up with what's going on with her."

"I don't think she likes me." I venture.

He shakes his head. "Nah, she's like that with people she doesn't know well. The first time I went home with Manny, I thought she was a bitch."

His straightforward manner relaxes me. He twirls my hair absentmindedly around his fingers. His casual affection comes more readily now, even in public.

"The kids are cute." I say, leaning into his touch.

"She says that they wake up sometimes, screaming for Manny." Tommy says. I know he knows the feeling; there have been a few occasions where he has done the same.

"That sucks." It is not the most eloquent of phrases, but still, it describes the situation perfectly.

"I hope she takes my advice." He shifts his hands around my waist, allowing him to lift me up like I weigh no more than a rag doll. He pulls me flush on top of him. "It helps to have someone."

"I kind of get the feeling that she wants you," I do not mean to say it, but it slips out.

Tommy leans backwards into the pillows. His blue grey eyes stare at me. I feel as though they are looking straight into my thoughts.

"Are you jealous?" he asks, just the hint of amusement on his tongue.

I feel my face flush. "I know it's stupid, it's just—."

"She did try." He cuts me off. "Just once. Right after I came back. I went to Texas before the Burgh, to check on her."

"What do you mean she tried?" I know that anything before we met should not count, but I still feel overprotective.

Tommy sucks in his bottom lip. "I got there. She was crying on me. I was hugging her and…she tried." He leaves it at that.

"What did you say?" I ask quietly.

"I said I couldn't. And I didn't." he clarifies.

I digest this quietly. I can't believe how upset I am over this. After all, I did bring her out here.

"She hasn't tried since." He assures me. "Not that it would matter if she did." His fingers walk a path down my back until they reach the back pocket of my jeans. He flattens his palms and pushes them in, cupping me in his grip.

"I'm sorry," I begin. I hate being jealous. I feel especially ashamed that I let it mar enjoying his birthday party."

"For what?" he sounds confused. "That was the best birthday I've had since I was a kid. I got to see my good friend and her kids and now I've got you up here in bed in a room with a door that locks." He smacks my bottom for good measure.

"It's not your birthday yet," we both glance at the clock. In 3 minutes, his twenties will be behind him. "Are you ready for the next decade of your life?"

"It's got to be better than the last ten years." He says. "Especially if it starts off with you naked."

I shake with laughter. "You've got a one track mind."

He smirks. "I tried all of my teenage years to get a girl up here in this bed," he tells me. "Now I'm living the dream."

"In this bed?" I glance at the scant inches of space around us. "You barely fit."

"Gives me an excuse to hold you closer." It is sappy, even if he says it with a laugh.

"Are you trying to butter me up?" I ask.

He begins to massage me. "I've got about a minute and a half to get your engine going." He glances at the clock.

"That's some speedy foreplay." I start to sit up.

"We had three minutes." He chastises. "You're the one who wanted to waste it talking."

I detangle myself from him and stand up. Piece by piece, I shed my clothing until I am standing there in my second birthday present to him. It is entirely black and red lace, with all the pushups and accoutrement that Victoria's Secret is known for. I had nearly forgotten about it in my haste to fall asleep, but I am not tired now. Tommy seems to be wide awake as well. His pupils dilate and his eyes darken.

"You've got about thirty seconds to get it off." I tell him. My skin feels warm under his heated stare.

He stands up so quickly I can barely see him. His shirt hits the ground in record time.

"Hell no," he pulls me into him, "leave it on."

He picks me up and wraps my legs around my waist. I hear the clock beep quietly as midnight rings in.

"Happy 30th Birthday, Tommy," I whisper against him as he slides home.


	22. Chapter 22

**Author's Note: An update! Special thanks to my new beta reader, Tullulah Lulah, who has been a tremendous help with editing this last chapter. And thanks to all of you out there who review and message and keep me motivated. You're all so lovely. Let me know what you think about this installment! ****  
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><p>I can't recount a time I have ever been so frightened. Tess and I are huddled up in her living room, barefoot on her hardwood floors and still dressed in our bathing suits. She is standing flush to my side, her skin cool from swimming. My hair is in damp and unruly curls. We are both shivering in the air conditioning. However, the tremble that rips through Tess's body has nothing to do with the temperature. There is a crash from the kitchen, the unmistakable sound of glass shattering on the floor. I jump and Tess reaches for me. Her hand clasps mine and I am thankful for the pressure. Her grip seems to be anchoring us both to reality. Tears sting my brown eyes and I snap them shut, forcing them down. I swallow the knot in my throat as Tess and I stand hand in hand, listening.<p>

Brendan raises his voice. Tommy's joins the chorus. They are yelling at one another, swearing, uttering terrible curses. They throw accusations like daggers. Each one seems to stick into the other and come through the door, stinging Tess and I.

It is the old hurt all over again, the abandonment, the guilt, the anger. I don't know if the brothers have ever truly laid all of their problems out like this, but they are certainly doing it now. Tommy hurls an insult, accusing his brother of always putting his own needs first. Brendan explodes, yelling back that Tommy is selfish. That he's alone because he wants to be, that he pushes everyone away, that he can't accept help.

To my side Tess gives a strangled sob. Her fist is shoved in her mouth, her blue eyes squeezed closed. She looks incredibly small, like the weight of what is going on in the kitchen is crushing her. I look down at my own arms and am surprised to see that they are shaking and that the copper colored skin there is pimpled in goose bumps.

"Should we go in?" she whispers.

I am too terrified to answer. Part of me wants to rush in, get between them and tell them to stop it. The other part knows that they need this. I have seen the tense silences that punctuate their conversations get more frequent. I have seen Tommy wake from nightmares, felt his sweat-slicked skin, the erratic beat of his heart, heard him calling out for his mother, for Brendan, for anyone to save him. What has happened between them is complicated and requires attention. It is not enough for them to gloss over the issues, to refuse to talk about the past.

I know that Brendan has tried, but Tommy always pushes him away. It appears he pushed too far today.

"She was my mom as much as she was yours. I loved her just as much as you did." Brendan sounds on the verge of tears. This time Tess doesn't even try to disguise her sob.

"Then how come I was the only one there watching her die?" Tommy is obviously crying, though his voice is full of venom.

"You made that choice. Just like you chose to leave."

"You chose to stay. For a girl." Tess shakes with more fervor.

"For my wife! I am not going to apologize for it anymore, Tommy."

"Then why are we having this conversation?"

"Because you never apologized! You're not the only one who got hurt. I was there? Remember? I was there when Pop was roaring drunk. I was the one holding your hand while you cried. I was the one who stopped him when he was trying to hit you. I was the one he ignored, even when you were gone. We both saw mom's bruises. And you didn't call, you didn't even…"

Brendan's voice breaks off and he succumbs to tears. The silence stretches for what feels like an eternity. There is so much sniffling that I can't tell who it is coming from, or even from what room. We hear the sound of footsteps coming towards the kitchen door and break apart. My hand tingles from the imprint of her tight grip. The door swings open, allowing me a momentary view of Brendan, bent over the kitchen island, his head in his hands, and shards of glass underneath his booted feet. Tommy stomps out, red eyed and angry. He passes the two of us without as much as a sidelong glance. Tess and I exchange brief eye contact before she rushes for her husband and I rush after Tommy. It takes three of my steps to match every one of his long lunges as he heads with single minded purpose for the door.

I barely have time to snatch my bag off of the couch before he is barreling outside. Barefooted, I follow him, calling his name in a voice so full of desperation I barely register that it's mine. He is in his truck, punching his keys into the ignition. I hardly manage to hop into the passenger seat before we tear out of the driveway. I am startled to see that he is crying openly, the tears rushing from his sapphire-grey eyes and down his cheeks. If it impedes his ability to drive he doesn't show it. He steers us up and down the main roads without aim, driving and crying. I search for words but come up blank. I want to hold him, rub his head and ask him what just happened. He is lost, deep in some past nightmare.

"Tommy," I say quietly. My voice seems to hit him like a whip across his face. He glances my way briefly before returning his gaze to the street. The sun is dipping behind the skyline. We drive in silence, my sense of unease escalating as the odometer clicks up. The Delaware River comes into sight. I study the grey water, watching the ripples play off the light of the sunset. It is a beautiful evening. The sun stains the world a faint pink, casting the world in a soft glow that seems to be mocking me.

This is supposed to be a vacation, a time to relax before the Sparta tournament next weekend. Tess called it family bonding, insisted that I be there. The first day was enjoyable, a barbeque in the backyard, the sounds of Tommy laughing and the girls playing. It was the calm before the storm. Something terrible happened when the brothers left the house to train this morning, some private pain must have been rehashed. Paddy did not return with them, the first warning sign. Then Brendan all but rushed his daughters from the house, insisting they play with the neighbors. Tess and I didn't even have time to change from our pool trip before we heard the first shouted words in the kitchen.

Tommy turns his truck into a driveway of a park. He navigates through the greenery, intent on finding something I am not privy to. I am mesmerized by the simple beauty of our surroundings, the old trees, their branches splaying towards the sky, the empty fields of endless green, the Delaware, cobalt blue in the background. It is empty here, serene. I begin to understand why Tommy retreated to this space. He backs into a parking space, the bed of his truck facing the shores of the river. Without a word he gets out of the driver's side and heads for the back. I follow, watching my step, cursing my decision to forgo shoes.

He allows me to spread my still-damp beach towel over the bed of the truck before he climbs in. I watch him watching the sunset, his sadness so evident on his face that I can't even begin to contemplate what brought it on. He is going to have to talk to me, really talk. It's a terrifying thought. I allow him a few more minutes of silence before I try to start conversation.

"What's wrong?" It is the only opening I can come up with.

He shakes his head once and then twice, as though my question is unanswerable.

"Tommy, please talk to me. I want to help," I say.

"You always want to help, Nicole. I don't think you can help with this."

"You can at least tell me." I scoot closer to him.

He leans backwards, lying down on the towel. I look down at him.

"Been 14 years, today," he says so quietly I almost don't hear it. I search my mind, wondering what he could possibly mean. It hits me all at once.

"Since your mom died?" I ask.

"Yeah," he swallows thickly.

Understanding comes. I search for something to say, but to my surprise, Tommy starts talking on his own.

"She was really sick. Pop took it all out of her. And then, leaving Brendan… I don't know. She wasn't the same. We weren't the same." His body deflates like a popping balloon. "She tried to hide it at first. But it was pretty damn obvious once she started coughing blood. She got so weak she couldn't get up in the morning, so I stayed home, dropped out of school. She used to make me pray with her, pray for Pop, for Brendan, for myself. She had this bottle of holy water," he wipes his face. I dare not interrupt. He has never told me any of this before.

"I used to rub it on her like it was medicine. I don't know how she got through the winter in that piece of shit shack we lived in. I kept thinking I should call Brendan. She would cry out for him at night when she thought I couldn't hear. But I was afraid." He sounds disgusted with himself. "I was afraid Pop would come too. I was afraid what calling him would mean."

"What would it mean?" I ask quietly.

"That she was dying. That it was the end of the line. Then where would I go? Back?"

He shakes his head feverishly, "Nah, I couldn't go back. I was too angry, too scared. So I didn't call. And she died anyway." He sounds like a child, like he's moments away from collapsing on himself.

"Did you ever tell him?" I ask. I reach down for his soft brunette hair and twist my fingers in his silky locks.

"No." He has the grace to sound guilty. "I ran. I left as soon as she was in the ground."

He pauses, perhaps thinking about that day. I picture him, young, unlined, his innocence shattered, standing alone by his mother's coffin. The image is enough to make me cry. I bite back my tears though, determined to be strong for Tommy when he needs it.

"Pop hired a private investigator," he continues. "I guess that's when he found out. But I think Brendan went looking for her right out of college. I don't know what he found."

"Did he confront you about it?" I ask.

"Just once. Last year. But he hasn't brought it up since. It was me, who said something today. Don't know why." He brings a broad, calloused hand up to massage his temples.

"You feel guilty." It's not a question. Tommy shrugs, but I know it's true. "Tommy, you've got to let it go." He lies there silently so I continue. "You have to apologize. And you have to forgive them." It is something he struggles with. Tommy is full of anger and resentment stemming from his past. He will never heal if he can't move past it.

"Forgiveness is for Brendan and Pop. Everything has already happened," he says. The bitterness of the sentiment does not quite reach his tone.

"So why are you letting it effect what hasn't happened yet?" I ask.

He turns to face me for the first time since the fight, "It ain't that easy."

"I never said it would be."

Tommy contemplates this.

"Brendan loves you, Tommy. And he is sorry."

"I know all that," he says, sounding petulant.

"You love him too. And I know you are sorry. So why can't you just tell him?"

"What good does sorry do? Doesn't change nothing."

"Yes it does," I am not backing down.

The sun is almost completely beyond the water, bathing us in darkness. The last halo of light reflects off of the water and into the back of the truck, illuminating the tan skin on Tommy's face. I study the way the light plays off of his features, highlighting the tear tracks on his skin.

"I was alone," he says. It almost sounds like an accusation, a justification.

We have come to the crux of the problem. Tommy felt abandoned, so much that even now, he cannot move past it.

"You were," I agree, "and no one, especially not you, deserves that."

My statement seems to validate his anger. I continue speaking before he can interrupt. "But all you went through led you here. It made you the man you are."

"What kind of a man am I?" His voice wrought with disgust. "I'm as angry as Pop used to be."

"You are like your dad in a lot of ways," I admit, "But the differences are more important." I lie down next to him and turn his face towards mine. "You are always good to me, good to your nieces. You put other people before yourself."

He shakes his head again. "Not today. Not when mom died." Tears begin to gather behind his eyes.

"You can't change that," I reiterate. "But you can change now."

"You think I should apologize," he sighs heavily.

"Only if you mean it." I want the decision to stem from him.

It is completely dark now. My skin, still exposed in my swim suit and sarong, is prickling from the cold. Tommy, at last, notices my attire, "Where are your shoes?"

"In your brother's living room. Along with my clothes." He inspects me, faint amusement playing on his lips.

"You ran out after me without real clothes on. You think I was going to do something stupid?"

"I just didn't want you to be alone," I say.

Tommy sits up and removes his gray cotton t shirt. He gestures for me to sit up as well. I do, and he pulls the soft worn fabric over my head. The warmth is an immediate relief. Now in only his undershirt, he cradles me against his chest and lays us back down. The hard surface of the truck bed presses up into my side, but I lie still, waiting for my boyfriend to come to a decision.

"Am I being an asshole?" he asks. I can barely discern his features in the twilight.

"I think it would be an easy thing to make it better." It is as diplomatic of an answer as I can give.

"Nothing is ever easy. 'Specially not in my family," he grunts.

Before I can respond he swings his body up and stalks off into the darkness. I don't move to follow him. I am barefoot and exhausted, and it is getting too dark out. He has to return to his truck eventually. I sit up, adjusting the baggy t-shirt, and lean back into the rear window. One by one, the park lights come on, flickering and illuminating small patches of greenery. I catch sight of some statues in the distance and wish for a moment that I could take a walk and explore my surroundings. A light sputters on directly over the truck. I groan, shading my eyes from the sudden onslaught of brightness. When my vision clears, I glance over to see a pair of college-aged kids stationed around a car. Making eye contact is an instant mistake; one of the young men points excitedly at me, recognition written all over his face.

There is nowhere to run, so despite the fact that I am barefoot, half dressed and in a bad mood, I muster a smile and try to simply turn away. I have no such luck. In a second, they are on me. "Nicole Ryan?" A dark skinned boy with low cut hair approaches. He's holding the hand of a pretty Puerto Rican looking girl. She's staring at me, assessing whether or not I'm a threat. I apparently pass the test because she relaxes, a slight smile on her lips. In my irritated state I contemplate removing the unsightly shirt, but it really is chilly and I have no desire to be gawked at.

I exchange the necessary small talk. They ask for a picture and I consider declining, but they are all looking at me with such adoration that I would feel bad. I finger comb my curly hair, straighten my shirt and reluctantly lower my bare feet to the pavement. I'm stationed in the middle of a group of young men (the girlfriend is holding the camera phone) when Tommy stomps back towards us out of the night.

If I excited the group, Tommy causes them to nearly swoon. I don't think the camera has time to save the picture when they rush off, running at the MMA god who everyone is so sure is going to take Sparta. Tommy is too far off for me to read his mood, and for a moment, I am panicked that he's going to go off on the group of kids. But as he enters the light, I see that crooked smile of his. "You kids watch MMA?" he asks them, slapping hands and bumping fists. They respond with youthful enthusiasm, recounting moments they've watched him fight, asking what it feels like to knock a man out.

I climb back into the truck bed, forgotten, watching my boyfriend act as though nothing is wrong. He is tough Tommy Conlon, locked down and emotionless. He is as difficult to read as he was a year ago sitting in that locker room. The thought worries me. More pictures are taken, manly handshakes are exchanged, and even the previously uninterested girlfriend looks thrilled to be meeting him. They walk away after what seems like eons, leaving the pair of us alone.

"Ready?" Tommy asks me as the college kids retreat to their car.

"For what?" I am almost afraid of the answer.

"To go home," he says, helping me down and carrying me to the passenger seat.

"To Brendan's?"

"You need your stuff." He walks around to the driver's seat.

"Are you going to talk to him?" I buckle my seatbelt.

Tommy just looks at me, refusing to say another word as we drive back.


	23. Chapter 23

**Author's Note: Special thanks to my new beta reader, Tullulah Lulah, who has been a tremendous help. And thank you to those of you out there who review and message and keep me motivated. Please let me know what you think about this installment! ****  
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><p>Atlantic City is largely unchanged from last year, with the exception that Sparta has somehow gotten even bigger. There is scarcely room to navigate the crowded boardwalk. I have never observed the words "Tap Out" scrawled in so many font and colors, have never watched so many people from so many walks of life gathered together. The world of MMA and UFC is like an exclusive club, a cult to rival football or a baseball. There are the big men, the ones you might expect to see, heavily muscled and in various states of undress, all either holding hands with bikini clad women or hitting on them. There are the college kids, skinny and eager and wide eyed, the tourists with their cameras, wondering what is going on, and families with children who wear the faces of their favorite fighters on their shirts.<p>

America's first boardwalk is colorful to the point of absurdity. There are the normal advertisements, the vendors, the casinos and hotels. With the addition of the fans, many wearing hats to rival things seen in a Dr. Seuss book, the whole area has a zealous sort of appeal, like Carnival in Brazil. It is nice to see it all as a tourist instead of hurrying to and fro, camera in tow. Tommy clutches my hand in his own, all but dragging me down the wooden walkways. He has the adverse effect of clearing a path. Crowds swarm to him like moths to a flame, clamoring for autographs and photos. He is becoming increasingly bad tempered, which only serves to ignite the fires of his fans' passions. They love him like this: angry and borderline resentful. This is the Tommy who they flocked from all corners to see.

He comes to a stop in front of the fountains at the Pier Shops at Caesars, realizing at last that we can go no farther. He gives me a look of frustration, but I only shrug. After all, no one is clamoring to see _me_. This is his time. With a sigh he straightens up, glances around and begrudgingly reaches for a sharpie marker held by the fan closest to him. I stand at his side, smiling while he broods, watching the amount of attention he commands. People ask him to pose and he reluctantly throws up a fist, glowering all the while. They eat it up and I bite back my laugh, occasionally stepping into the frame when someone recognizes me as well. It lasts for nearly 45 minutes, this nonstop barrage of well-wishers and trash talkers, of people telling Tommy they've got money riding on him or that they can't wait to see him knocked out.

The only ones he has a smile for are the kids. They come up to him, some buzzing with excitement, others tentative, but he lifts them all up, balances them on his shoulders and grins for the photographs. This seems to take some people aback; some of the bigger guys whisper amongst themselves. Tommy takes no notice of them. He might as well be standing alone, for all the attention he pays other people. Whether they insult or compliment him, his reaction is the same. Indifference is a mask he wears well.

A few of the other fighters mill in and out, joining in the fray. Rampage Jackson attracts nearly as much interest as Tommy. He's built like a human tank and could give my boyfriend lessons in scowling. Right now though, he is all laughs, exchanging good natured trash talk with a crowd. He is something of a movie star at the moment, thanks to a role playing the toughest member of the A Team. He spots us from afar and moves towards us. I think for a moment that the crowd is going to get its first peak of bonafide male head butting.

Instead, Jackson extends a hand. "Conlon, my man," he says with a serious look, "thanks for what you and your boys did for us overseas."

Tommy stares at him hard for a moment, with that locked down expression on his face. He nods, almost imperceptibly, and then grasps Jackson's hand.

"Saw your movie. You were a good Mr. T," the two men shake hands, acknowledging their mutual respect.

"Won't stop me from kicking your ass, Conlon," Jackson says, male bonding moment over.

"You can try," Tommy wipes his nose, completely unconcerned. The crowd hoots and hollers like a fight is about to start in the high school cafeteria. Tommy turns, gestures to me and walks off, done with it all. "See you in round two," he yells over his shoulder.

"Bring your A game," is Jackson's parting shot.

"I pity the fool that don't," Tommy shoots back. The crowd roars its appreciation and even Jackson's lips twitch in a smile.

The rest of the day passes in a similar manner, a blur of faces that look vaguely familiar and a sea of brand new ones. The big stars are all here, some to watch, some to fight. I spot people I have become familiar with; Stephan "American Psycho" Bonnar, Forrest Griffin, Ryan Bader and Matt Hamill round out the usual All-American suspects. A man swaggering by with the air of a fashion model catches my eye. I am startled to recognize him as Mauricio Rua, a Brazilian fighter and Jiu-Jitsu master who I've watched take guys apart in the past. I spot up-and-comers, Jon Jones and "the Dragon" Machida, men who are every bit the animal that Tommy is.

Even though I was completely aware that Tommy might face these men in the ring, the sight of them in real life unnerves me. I wonder how they could possibly be considered lightweights. Most of them are over 6 feet tall, built like walls, with biceps of iron. Some of them, like Jon Jones, are much younger than Tommy. They walk around with their posses in tow, dressed to the nines, covered in more sponsor labels than Times Square. These men are professionals, guys whose back stories are peppered with knockouts and TKO's, with submissions and winning streaks. None of them had to interrupt training to defend their country. None of them have recently recovered from an explosion. The reality sets in. These men can hurt Tommy and they will be actively trying to do so in just a few short hours. He's the only fighter returning from last year. He might as well have bulls eye painted on the back of his head.

If Tommy realizes this, he doesn't show it. He doesn't stop to talk to any of them. In fact, he barely glances their way. He's preoccupied with talking to the guys behind the scenes now. There are a few legends milling around and he seems to be trying to speak to them all. He is stationed next to Chuck Liddell and Eugene Jackson. I listen to them trading stories and jokes, wishing that Tommy would ask them for advice. They all seem so taken in by him, so eager to see how he will perform.

Randy Couture stops Tommy in the lobby of the Harrah's to tell him he is a big fan. It marks the first time I have ever seen my boyfriend look a little star struck. He gapes a tad as Couture walks off, signing autographs as he moves toward the elevator.

"Better shut your mouth, babe. You're starting to drool," I tease.

"I used to watch that guy. He was an animal," he says.

"So are you," I tell him, "So are a lot of guys in here."

He glances at me, "You worried?"

"I would be lying if I said I wasn't."

He shrugs. "They're all just gonna hit the mat one at a time." He throws an arm confidently over my shoulder. "C'mon," he says, "let's go." We are about to move upstairs to the room when I see Brendan and Tess. They took a later flight than we did so that they could get their daughters situated. Brendan makes it about three yards into the lobby before he is recognized and surrounded. He looks incredibly overwhelmed by the attention. Tommy watches it all unfold. I glance between the two brothers, wondering if they ever truly made up. They shook hands upon our return to Brendan's house last week, but beyond that, I do not know what has passed between them.

"Maybe you should go save him," I suggest, gently squeezing Tommy's arm.

He groans, but plunges in headlong anyway. I know Tommy feels bad for whatever it was that he said a few days back. Apologies are not his strong point. I have learned to look beyond what he says, to see the emotion in his actions. For the last few days he has been incredibly accommodating to my every whim. It is his calculated way of saying sorry. The crowd parts like the Red Sea as Tommy reaches Brendan. He leans forward, exchanging quiet words with his older brother as cameras flash around them. Brendan clasps his shoulder. The two pose for a few seconds before they shove through the crowd, Brendan holding Tess's hand, Tommy holding their luggage.

We retreat to the solitude of our shared hotel rooms. Just like a year ago in Arlington, our rooms are joined by a door in the middle. Brendan and Tommy disappear into one room with Paddy to go over strategy for the weekend. Tess and I are left to ourselves.

"How was your trip?" I ask.

"The girls were sad they couldn't come," she says, transferring clothes from her suitcase to the dresser. I notice some nice, but modest outfits. They are a far cry from what some of the other fighters' women will be wearing. Even I debated what to bring, finally settling on some tasteful but tight dresses. I won't be the most glamorous woman ringside, but I'll look presentable.

"It must be nice though, for you and Brendan to have some time together," I stand up to help her.

She snorts. "They're going to be doing whatever man ritual they need to before the fighting starts," she puts the last of her clothing away. "Trust me on this; we're going to be pretty much alone this weekend."

True to her word, the men do not emerge for upwards of an hour. We are left to our own devices. My mind is racing, painting scenarios in which Tommy succeeds this weekend. The thoughts of him losing are more vivid. I recall past fights of his that I've been to, the fear that stabs like a knife in my belly whenever someone lands a vicious blow. Tommy has won all of those fights, so I tolerated the black eyes and cracked teeth, the bruises and cuts, the soreness that can leave him almost immobile the next morning. There are times where he is so banged up that I am afraid to touch him, lest it inflict pain. What is he going to be like after this weekend? The question haunts me.

"Nicole," my boyfriend is in the doorway wearing a hoodie and fighting shorts. "We're going to go down and spar for a little." Most of the fighters, I know, are getting ready to go out, to bask in the adoration of their groupies. Not my boyfriend. His work ethic both inspires pride in me and makes me resolve to take him out the moment this all is done. Tommy never has a chance to just be young.

"All right," I say. Tess voices a similar conformation. I see Paddy in the background, already moving to the elevator. He tips his head at us. We wave back. My eyes follow them out. Perhaps Tess detects some worry in them.

"This weekend will go faster than you think," she tells me.

"I hope so," I sigh.

"You just have to remember, when he looks over at you from the ring, you have to smile," she says sagely. "Don't look scared. Yell when there's a bad call, cheer when he does something good. Just don't look scared," she repeats and pats my back. "It's easy to fake it."

Her statement and the suggestive way she says it, brings me to laughter. "Do you fake it?" I ask.

"Only ringside," she smiles. She has successfully distracted me for the time being. We playfully banter, trading funny stories about our men, our first time, all of those things women speak about when we are alone together. It is fun to compare the brothers, to converse about their similarities and differences. Tess has insight that comes only with time. She offers tips on how to handle the typical Conlon sullenness, tells stories about what Tommy was like when she first met her husband. I am fascinated by the thought of my boyfriend as a teenager. I have only even seen one picture of him when he was a child. Paddy showed it to me. He has a scrapbook of sorts of things about his boys. There are newspaper clippings, a short blurb on Brendan winning a teaching award and pages dedicated to his win at Sparta. Towards the beginning of the scrapbook, though, Tommy is dominant. From the time he was about five years old, Paddy seemed to be obsessed with his talent, shaping his son into a mean fighting machine. It's easy to see how Brendan could have been jealous. There is only one picture of him as a teenager, and Tommy is in it. The boys are squinting into the sun, with that look of adolescent disdain that high school students get when cameras come out. Tommy was all lean muscle and long limbs and he looked comically gangly. Brendan had a more filled out appearance, almost like the boys on a teen sitcom. When Tess first began to date her husband he was handsome, unlined, and athletic. There are shades of that man still, more so now than before his family reconciled. Nevertheless, it is sad to see what years of stress can do to youth. Part of me is jealous of Tess because she knew Tommy when he was still whole, still relatively innocent. It is a side I might never be familiar with.

"How do you stand it, watching Brendan fight?" I ask her.

She shrugs, studying her fingernails. "I've been watching him fight since high school. One time," she begins, "he got hit so hard that he was unconscious for hours. The girls and I were waiting in the lobby of the hospital and all I could think was that if anything happened to him…I wouldn't know what to do." She stops and smiles weakly at me. "I guess it's silly, especially in this decade, to wrap your life around a man like that, but…"

"I guess it can't hurt, if they feel the same about you," I tell her. "Brendan adores you."

She blushes, though the knowledge can't surprise her. After years of marriage, she is still that giggly adolescent girl, deep in her first teenage love affair.

"Tommy is crazy about you too," she says. "You should see the way he is when you're in Bristol and he's with us. He barely sleeps, just paces the house, like a lion in a cage."

This is a revelation to me. "Really?"

She nods. "He just works out and comes home and thinks about you."

"You don't know that he is thinking about me," I attempt to laugh it off.

"I think that you are one of the only things he thinks about," she says so simply that I know she believes it to be true.

I let the weight of her statement sit between us. My entire relationship with Tommy, I have felt as though I am the one more in love, the one more willing to give. I know that he needs me, that he appreciates me even. I know that he is not lying when he says he loves me. I just do not know what love means to him, or what he plans on doing about it.

The clamor of celebrations going on all around us reaches the window of our room. I look down on the crowded streets, watching as the sun sets over the boardwalk. People are already raging, yelling, indulging in all kinds of debauchery while Tess and I sit upstairs. I come to a decision.

"Want a drink?" I ask.

"A drink?" Tess begins laughing. "I can't remember the last time I had one of those."

I crack the mini bar open. As the family of a fighter, we get complimentary beverages. I fully intend on taking advantages. "All the more reason to have one," I say and set about making Long Islands. Tess watches, buzzing with excitement. We have one, drink and then another. I am unaware that our volume is getting louder as we consume. At one point I am up, third beverage in hand, yelling Tess down and she attempts to get me to dance.

"Do it!" she shouts, giggling, slumped over in a hotel chair.

"Ok!" I agree, bouncing down off of the bed. "I'll teach you."

Some small part in the back of my mind knows that I am trying to distract myself from the worry of what might happen in the next few days. I take another swallow, feeling the drink burn down the back of my throat. After another gulp of liquid courage, I set my glass down and begin teaching Tess Beyonce's _Single Ladies_ dance. I am halfway through demonstrating a hip rolling motion when the door to our room flies open.

Tess immediately sits down, looking ashamed, but it takes me slightly longer to come to my senses. I spin around, and feel the world begin to turn on its axis. I begin to topple over.

Tommy catches me. "Damn baby," he pulls me into his arms. He smells good, like the Irish Springs soap he uses. I bury my face in his chest, inhaling.

"You showered," I murmur, pleased as punch.

"Jesus…" I think it is Paddy's voice that I hear but I can't be sure. "She's gone." There is laughter in the room around me. All I can focus on though, is the feel of Tommy's chest against my face. He says something about needing to sober me up and then I am being moved, transferred through the adjoining door and into our room.

"What got into you?" he asks me. He lowers me slowly to the bed and attempts to let me go, but I drag him down on top of me. "A lot of liquor," my vision will not seem to clear.

"Kinda figured that," he sounds amused. "Didn't take you for a partier."

"I'm not," I slur. "It's just…" I cannot seem to articulate my emotions.

"You know," Tommy brushes the hair out of my eyes, "It ain't good to drink away your problems. I should know."

I reach out and smooth my hands along his face. "You're going to be all beat up tomorrow," I tell him.

"Wait till you see what the other guy's gonna look like."

The alcohol in my system makes me feel like laughing, but I resist, trying to fight it. "You know I love you, right?" I feel compelled to ask.

"Yeah, Nicole," he kisses my ear. "I know."

"Do you-" I begin to ask but he shushes me.

"Let me take care of you for a change, baby," he whispers. His husky voice, combined with the light pressure of his lips on the tip of my ear, sends chills down my spine. I melt like butter in a pan against him, content to feel the warmth of his skin, to inhale his masculine scent, to taste him. "Don't worry about me," he tells me after he has administered aspirin and water and changed me into one of his long shirts. "On Sunday, it'll be over. And we'll be rich." I note his use of the plural instead of the singular "I."

"I don't need money," I mutter. "I just want you." He is silent so long that I think that he will not respond. He slides into bed behind me, wraps his arms around my chest and pulls me flush against him. I begin to drift to sleep despite the noise of people partying outside and in the halls.

I cannot be sure of whether or not I'm dreaming, but I hear Tommy tell me, "You've got me, babe."

The thought gives me sweet dreams.


	24. Chapter 24

**Author's Note: Again, special thanks to my beta reader, Tullulah Lulah, who has been a tremendous help and thank you to those of you out there who review and message and keep me motivated. I'm happy you're all still hanging in there with me. Please let me know what you think about this installment! ****  
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><p>I have five minutes of alone time with Tommy after the first round. We have been together for upwards of an hour, but not alone. A nonstop barrage of trainers, physicians, therapists, reporters, security, and sponsors file in and out as though they are all queued outside of the locker room doors. I would not be surprised to find that they were. I watch it all in relative silence, smiling only when Tommy happens to glance my way. He still looks like himself, give or take a bruise or two. I know that by tonight it is possible that I might not be able to distinguish his facial features. I take them all in now, devouring him hungrily with my eyes, committing the sight to memory. With any luck, he will look like this on Sunday. I am not counting on it.<p>

At last, he waves everyone away. He commands enough respect that the strangers vacate at his bequest. Even his family walks outside, giving us a moment.

"What'd you think?" he asks me. I can see the slight smile playing at the corner of his lips. I know he is looking for confirmation that his pride is well-founded, that I am proud of his achievements as well. I am happy to give it to him.

"I think it was certainly much shorter than Ramirez intended," I say, smiling. The first round of fighting, against a newcomer I was not familiar with, barely made it to five minutes before Tommy laid him out face down on the mat. The crowd had roared its approval, thrilled for a repeat of last year. I had let out a sigh of relief, but I had three more rounds to get through, and so did Tommy.

I glance at the television set in the corner, watching Jackson knock his opponent out cold. I quickly avert my eyes. No need to dwell on the next few hours. I fix my attentions on my boyfriend.

"You think he's going to be ok?" Tommy asks again, wiping his face with a warm towel. I am taken aback by his question.

"Ramirez?" I ask. Tommy nods. "He's going to have a hell of a headache, but I overheard someone say he's already conscious." Tommy nods more vigorously, fixing his eyes on some spot on the wall. "Good," he says, standing up and popping his muscles.

"It's Jackson next," I say.

"Yup," he agrees, pulling on a plain black t-shirt.

"Are you ready?" I ask.

"He better be," Tommy drops a kiss on my lips. "I gotta talk to Pop and Brendan," he says. It is a dismissal, but a polite one. I understand that I am a distraction. It would not do to think lovey dovey thoughts when six feet of solid muscle is trying to wipe the floor with you.

I return his kiss, wish him luck, and remind him that I will be cheering for him. He smiles at me and I return it, remembering Tess's advice, trying not to let my anxiety show.

Later, I can barely hold down dinner. The food is tasteless in my mouth and I scarcely feel the textures on my tongue. I swill down some wine, attempting to calm my frayed nerves.

"Easy there," Brendan reaches out and lightly pushes my hand down, lowering the wine glass to the table, "thought you had enough of that last night."

I allow him and his wife a laugh at my expense, even going so far as to join in. It feels lovely to laugh. I remember that, for better or worse, this will all be done in 36 hours' time.

I retreat back upstairs to prepare, understanding that if I am to be a fighter's girlfriend, I need to look the part. Tess had the benefit of anonymity last year, a luxury I am certainly not afforded. I glance through my meticulous suitcase, weighing the pros and cons of each outfit, glad for a distraction to occupy my thoughts. I settle on a little black dress that falls mid-thigh and has sheer shoulders and a beaded neckline. The black silk is cool against my heated skin. I take time with my hair, oiling it, curling it, fluffing it out. I line up makeup brushes, open little containers and assemble them as though I am about to paint a portrait. I am keenly aware that one mile down the road Tommy is also getting ready. So as he tapes up his knuckles and stretches his muscles, I dust colored minerals over my eyelids and gloss my lips. Satisfied, I stuff my feet into simple silver heels, grab my purse and join Tess downstairs where a car waits to shuttle us a block and a half down the street.

She valiantly attempts to distract me on the car ride there, singing loudly to the radio and ribbing me into participating. I gamely play along, appreciative of her efforts, even as nervousness swells and roils in the pit of my stomach. It is a miracle that I navigate the carpeted floors and narrow walkways without tripping. I spot Gavin, hulking a head above everyone else in a sea of reporters. He waves, a camera balanced on his shoulder and I wave back, sincerely hoping that whatever he is about to film makes Tommy look good. Tess and I take our seats.

I am aware how out of place we both seem. There is no posse sitting with us. Jackson's camp seems to consist of nearly everyone he knows. I glance over and catch Jackson's girl throwing me a snide look. In a fit of uncharacteristic anger, I consider getting the fight started earlier, but quickly regain sense. She will not be smirking after my man wipes the floor with hers.

"Nicole," Tess's voice draws my attention to her, "are you ok?"

"Just waiting for it to start," I say. It is true. The anticipation is worse than the fight.

At long last the back beat of Rampage Jackson's intro music begins, pumping into the crowded hall through the surround sound speakers. The crowd erupts, roaring right back with Jackson as he swaggers down the tunnel to Al Kapone's _You Ain't Stopping Me_. He has his chain on, a heavy metal thing that he hands to his trainer with great ceremony before he climbs into the ring. His eyes are focused. He is here to win. I recognize his intensity as something I commonly see in Tommy. I try not to dwell on it.

A low chanting starts from the opposite side of the ring and my head whips around. I recognize the song and am momentarily shocked that Tommy has finally chosen intro music and, more specifically, chosen a song that I love. He comes in, his brother and father behind him, looking every inch the beast in his black hoodie. Kanye West's _Power_ plays loudly behind him. The cheering is deafening, mixed in with boos from his opponent's fans. I watch him march up the stairs, enter the ring and remove his sweatshirt. He glances in my direction, catching my eye for the briefest of moments. I smile, blow him a slight kiss. He nods at me.

He and Jackson posture and flex, each trying their best to intimidate one another. It has no apparent effect. They meet in the center of the ring, only centimeters from the other's face. It reminds me of how dogs snarl and growl, ready to fight. I suck in a huge gulp of air, feeling the pressure tighten my chest. The referee gives his standard speech, lifts his hands and declares, "Let's go to war!" The bell rings, the fans explode and I stop breathing. Back and forth they dance, feeling the other out. It does not last long. Tommy goes in first, attacking with the ferocity that made him a household name. Jackson counters, landing as many blows as Tommy rains on him. I cannot see how there could be a clear winner, not when they seem so evenly matched. Every smack of bone on skin, every crack of muscle, every drop of blood engrains its image into my mind.

By the end of round two, my internal organs have turned to liquid. Tommy is bleeding. Brendan washes it off his face, leans forward to tell him something. From the sidelines Paddy shouts and Tommy nods, jumping off the stool before the bell has even rung again. The two men meet yet again in furious competition. Tommy dives for Jackson's legs, attempting to take him down. Jackson swings his arms up and pounds back down, forcing Tommy under him. I feel panic overtake me, afraid Tommy might lose. But he is out of Jackson's grip just as quickly as he came to be in it. All at once he is on top, straddling Jackson. There is a flurry of fists. Tommy's hands come down, again and again, raining blows Jackson is blocking. The darker man keeps attempting to roll out, but Tommy holds him still, beating him on his arms, attempting to hit his face. Jackson is becoming visibly tired, but Tommy shows no signs of slowing. I wonder what nightmare is fueling him right now, what horror compels his fists to keep falling. I am aware that I am screaming, though I do not know what words I am using. I cannot hear my own voice over the cacophony that is the crowd.

"That's it! That's it!" the referee is waving his arms. Tess leaps into me, jubilant, cheering. A TKO in Tommy's favor. Round two is over. Jackson looks worse for the wear as he is helped up by Tommy. He has so much blood on his face that I cannot believe that he can even see, but he reaches out and shakes Tommy's hand. I know that he is disappointed by his loss, but he is a good sport. I feel my respect for him grow. He exits the ring as Tommy is declared the winner. I swallow hard, pushing down the absurd urge to cry in relief. There are only two fights left.

My relief is short lived once I get a closer look at the damage Jackson dealt my boyfriend. It puts me in mind of last year, the way Brendan looked after a fight. Tommy is no longer untouchable. He looks jubilant though, or as jubilant as I have ever seen him look.

"Two more," he tells me later around a mouthful of gauze. He spits into the sink to his side and I try to ignore the fact that his spit is as red as a fairytale apple.

I smile and apply gentle pressure with a warm washcloth. His cuts are blessedly shallow. He is standing in a towel in our hotel bathroom, humoring me as I fawn over him. He bends over and rinses his mouth out. I am satisfied that his teeth are no longer stained the color of a cherry tomato.

"Who are you fighting?" I ask him as he is climbing into the bathtub. Instead of steaming warm water, the porcelain tub is filled with ice. It looks absolutely miserable, but he climbs in like it is a Jacuzzi.

"Rua," he answers, shivering slightly as he lowers himself into the freezing water.

A mental image of the huge Brazilian man flashes in my mind's eye. He has a penchant of knocking fighters out as frequently as Tommy does. He will not be able to beat the Jiu-jitsu master at his own game. I wonder if he has a plan. He looks as unconcerned as ever as he burrows into the ice, sighing. He sounds like a glass of lemonade every time he shifts position. I tell him so.

"Wanna join?" he laughs.

"If it were warm," I say. I reach in and playfully splash him. "Are you going to train tonight?"

"Nope," he kicks a few cubes of ice at me, "I'm all yours."

As thrilled as I am to hear this, I cannot help but give him a skeptical look. "Are you sure?"

"I'm as ready as I'm ever gonna be, baby," he closes his eyes and leans his head back against the rim of the tub. "You've gotta distract me tonight. Think you can handle it?"

"I have a few ideas," I kiss him gently. "I'll see you when you're done being a Tommy-sickle."

His laughter chases me out the door. I change out of my dress, sliding into the infinitely more comfortable ensemble of a t-shirt and jeans. I comb the artificial curls out of my hair, wipe off a layer of makeup and throw on some tennis shoes. The only thing I want tonight is to be alone with my man, walking around and looking at the sights. He does not protest when I tell him my plan. He dresses, grabs my hand and walks me outside. We end up on the beach, walking in companionable silence. We do not talk about the upcoming fights, we do not talk about fighting at all. It looms like a stormy cloud over our heads, but we refrain, instead choosing to talk about the movies we want to see, the places we want to go, and the things we want to do in the future.

"I'm thinking about moving," he tells me as we trudge through the sand.

"To where?" I ask. I know that he does not want to continue splitting time between his brother's and his father's houses.

"Bristol," he says simply.

I smile at the mere thought of that. It would be wonderful to have him every day, to see him after work. "That would be nice," I tell him.

"Just nice?" he asks.

"It'd be fan-fucking-tastic," I say with no trace of sarcasm.

"We'll talk about it after this is all over, I guess," he says, effectively bringing us back to the here and now. "We better get back," he glances at his watch, "I got an early start tomorrow."

The morning dawns earlier than seems possible. I feel, rather than hear, Tommy get out of bed. I contemplate joining him before I catch a glimpse of the bedside clock. It is 4 in the morning. How he has the energy to even hold his eyes open, let alone go warm up, is a miracle to me. He is full of nervous energy. I watch him through hooded eyes as he gets his equipment ready and then bandages his knuckles. He walks to the door adjoining us to his brother's room and knocks. Brendan opens within seconds. The two converse in low deep voices before they begin gathering up gym bags. They make for the door, tip toeing.

"See you in a few hours, baby," I mumble.

He turns and smiles at me. "See ya."

I drift in and out of sleep for the next few hours before the sun streaming through the crack in the curtains compels me to get up. I dress and then collect Tess. We eat breakfast downstairs and watch the speculation on the outcomes of the fights between the final four fighters. Tommy and Mauricio "Shogun" Rua command most of the attention, as they are the most evenly matched. Analysts debate, claiming that Rua has more experience but Tommy has more heart. One argues that heart does not win a fight, muscle does. The analysts laugh but I feel my stress level ratchet up a few notches. It will come down to who wants it more, they agree in the end. I sincerely hope that it is Tommy.

The fight is scheduled for 1 pm, but Tess and I arrive just after noon. The place is already crowded. We catch the end of Jon Jones and Dan Henderson's match. Jones wins by majority decision, advancing to the finals. I shove the information to the back of my mind, resolved to worry about it after Tommy has won round three. By the time Rua's entrance theme begins playing, I am close to having a panic attack. The man is a beast, as inexorable as Tommy is said to be. I believe I am about to find out what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object.

It turns out that Tommy is the unstoppable force. He does indeed have a strategy: the ground and pound. The bell has barely rung when Tommy runs at Rua, grasping him around the waist, pulling him up and slamming him into the mat. Rua is as surprised as the spectators are. There are gasps and screams of delight and displeasure. All of Mauricio's skills in jiu-jitsu are for nothing now. He cannot get a hold on Tommy. It is like trying to hold onto smoke. Tommy beats him, reminding me of the hurting he put on Mad Dog Grimes last year. Rua gives it his best effort, but cannot break free. I realize, that for all of his brutality, Tommy has spent a great deal of time studying his opponents. The time he has put in strategizing with Paddy and Brendan is all coming to fruition.

The horn blows before Tommy can knock Rua out and the two men break apart. Tommy returns to his corner, almost completely unscathed. Rua cannot say the same. Blood is running down his face, obscuring his vision and he is swaying like a character in _Mortal Kombat_. All that is left is to finish him off.

The grand finale comes in the form of a dazzling kick halfway through round two. Rua does a decent job dancing away from Tommy, staying out of the range of his fists. Tommy sees his opening, striking hard and fast, his foot connecting solidly with Rua's head. He drops like a stone, hitting the mat with a resounding thud. I leap up, screaming wildly while Tess jumps around me. Brendan is smiling like it is Christmas morning from Tommy's side and even Paddy looks visibly pleased.

Three down. One more to go. Now it is time to start worrying about Jon Jones.

I hope Tommy has spent as much time watching Jones fight as he did Rua.

It would be heartbreaking to come this far to lose.


	25. Chapter 25

**Author's Note: As always, special thanks to my beta reader, Tullulah Lulah, who is always so prompt with her corrections. Seriously, you are the best. And all you readers and reviewers, you all make my day with your kind comments and support. This story is slowly coming to a close, but I'm working to leave you all with a satisfying ending. This chapter is decidedly more "M" rated than the rest of the story. Please review!****  
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><p>The horn blows, signaling an end to the second round of the finals. Jon "Bones" Jones has the technical advantage over Tommy. He is harder to get a hold of than an eel, twisting and turning with ease, using his 6'4'' form to his advantage. His style is unorthodox, a mixture of spinning kicks and elbows that I believe Tommy is only avoiding because he studied them so thoroughly. Tommy has danced around the ring for ten minutes now, looking for an opening to take Jones down. He has not found it, but blessedly, Jones is struggling in the same category. The first ten minutes of the fight have been like sitting on pins and needles for me. The two men have traded blows, some that looked to be fight ending, but miraculously, both are still on their feet. Their experience in wrestling means that they both execute well on the mat. Tommy and Jones have been grappling with each other nonstop, but like octopi, both managed to wriggle out of the other's grasp. Now, Brendan tells Tommy something in their corner, but Tommy's eyes are fixed firmly on his opponent. They are gray as stones, following Jones like a lion watches his prey.<p>

It is now or never, and he knows it.

Jones' trainers circle him, wiping blood from his eyes and squirting water in his mouth. If he is worried at all about the outcome of ht next round, he is not showing it. He looks as calm as if her were sitting watching someone else spar in training. He spits his water out and jumps up, dancing back and forth like a tiger in a cage. The crowd is holding its collective breath, waiting for what is going to happen next. The referee walks almost tentatively to the center of the ring, like a man trying to break up a dogfight. He raises his hand high in the air, waiting for the signal. The horn blows and his arm arcs down.

Tommy explodes out of the corner the moment round three begins, arms swinging. Jones attempts an elbow to the back of Tommy's neck, but Tommy blocks it. Jones backs up and resets, diving in, grabbing Tommy around the waist and taking out his legs. I give a startled cry, dread seizing me. Tommy goes down hard, the smack of his skin on the mat resounding even over the din of the crowd. I leap to my feet, cursing, half wishing I could run into the ring and pull Jones off my man. Jones tries the move that Tommy is famous for: the ground and pound. But Tommy has no intention of going out like that. He swings up his legs, tipping Jones up over his head. The move takes Jones by surprise, allowing Tommy the opportunity to leap away. He does not try to pin Jones, or lock him into any kind of hold. I am startled by this, wondering what his strategy could possibly be, especially when he permits Jones to struggle back to his feet. The second he regains his balance Tommy strikes out with a punishing blow straight to his face. The crack resounds through the arena and Jones is thrown back. Before he straightens out Tommy fires a quick jab and a right hook, knocking his opponent sideways. Jones sways and Tommy hits again, this time behind the ear. As Jones falls forward, Tommy pulls up a knee, smashing it into his chest.

There is a moment where time seems to be suspended. Very clearly I am able to take in all of the details: the crowd leaping to their feet in waves, like the ocean in the midst of a storm, the referee lurching forward, Brendan leaping in delight just outside of the ring, Paddy wearing an expression of anxiety and, most importantly, the look of surprise and disappointment on Jones's face as he realizes it is all over.

He goes down, slumping to the floor like a toppled deck of cards with 45 seconds left to go in the round. The referee calls it, but it does not matter; the crowd knows who has won. Cameras are jockeying for position, trying to get in the cage. I see Brendan take a flying leap and start climbing faster than I ever thought humanly possible. He does not wait for Tommy to meet him, but rather flips himself over the metal barrier in an impromptu display that is so impressive I wish I had a camera to capture the moment. He drops down straight into his little brother's arms. Tommy claps him around the shoulders, pulling him into him hard, seemingly too overwhelmed for words. They smile at each other, grinning broader than the public has ever seen them grin. All at once, Brendan grabs his brother's hand and swings it up, holding it above them.

Tommy looks off at something just behind him, gesturing with his free hand. His movements become more authoritative and I realize he is calling someone. I push forward, Tess right behind me, trying to get ringside. We get just close enough to see Paddy's head begin to emerge. He walks in slow steps, betraying his age. He is almost tentative, as though he cannot believe what is happening. Tommy is having none of it. Together, he and Brendan bend down, pulling their dad up to them. Tommy clasps his father's arm, gives him a crooked smile and then drags his hand up. All three men stand there in some moment all of their own, isolated in a crowd of strangers by some private bonding. Paddy is clearing crying; the salty tears flow silently down his cheeks as he watches Tommy shake Jones' hand and receive his belt. Tommy swings the heavy metal up onto his shoulder, positioning it between himself and Brendan. It is a far different scene than last year, when Brendan all but carried his little brother down the stairs and into the locker room, pushing the cameras away. Now all three men stand together, looking so much like a happy family that it is difficult to comprehend the emotional state they were all in last year.

I glance to my right and see that Tess is crying as freely as she did when Brendan won, her lips pulled back in a wide smile. I chance a glance at them too, feeling the emotion weighing heavily behind my own eyes. Tommy looks down at me, grinning that crooked grin of his. I blow him a kiss, wanting desperately to run t him. I am keenly aware that I could damage his street credibility, so I allow him his manly moment, content to stand on the outskirts. He will be mine in a few short minutes. He begins his descent out of the cage, slowly making his way down the tunnel. Through the throng he reaches for me, yanking me to his side. His skin is sweat-slicked but I do not care. I grasp his hand, walking with the Conlon family down the tunnel to the locker rooms; I am a part of Tommy's inner circle now, not an outsider or a reporter. I have been accepted into the fold.

The next few hours are a raucous blend of interviews. I am on the other end of the camera this time, sitting side by side with Tommy. A few reporters attempt to pull Tommy out of our little group but he stubbornly refuses to move, leaving them scrambling to find a shot that doesn't include all of us. Brendan and Paddy are asked their fair share of questions. The media is having a field day with the double threat that is the Conlon brothers. Two wins in a row like this have never happened before. My facial muscles grow tired from the incessant smiling, but I cannot seem to relax them. Tommy's hand stays wrapped around mine as he speaks in clipped phrases to the reporters.

When they finally clear off Tommy takes a moment to shower and pull himself together. He is expected to go out, to make an appearance and rub shoulders with his fans. I know this is not his forte, but he goes willingly, even pulling on an outfit made exclusively from Hanes cotton. It is an outfit I packed for him, a nice button down black shirt and jeans that have not been completely faded by use. He leaves the top buttons of his shirt undone, exposing his undershirt, and pushes the sleeves up to the elbow. I stop him, rolling the material back down and smoothing it out, folding it up so that it is more presentable.

"You have to look good, baby," I half-tease, straightening his collar.

"Figured you were doing that," he takes in my bronze cocktail dress with a smirk.

"Well," I brace my hands on his shoulders, "you need to keep up." I kiss him lightly on the lips. I turn around and he gives me a playful smack on the bottom. We walk outside, poking and play shoving each other like children. Tommy swings me up, holding my feet just off of the ground until I agree to stop tickling him. I would venture to say that he is bordering on giddiness. He is certainly boyishly happy.

Tess, Brendan and Paddy meet us, all similarly dressed up. Paddy has put on a button down that looks like it has seen better days, but it is strangely endearing. He has left his newsboy cap in the hotel room and keeps running his hand through his gray hair nervously. Tommy punches him lightly in the shoulder. For whatever reason, it relaxes him. He leads the way into the restaurant, loudly announcing to the hostess that we are there to celebrate. We eat dinner, just the five of us. Plates and plates of food roll out, appetizers varying from sticky mozzarella sticks to calamari, salads that go largely untouched, and dishes loaded with steak, potatoes, vegetable, chicken and pasta roll though on an endless carousel of waiters. The food is all on the house, even the bottles of expensive champagne. Paddy toasts with apple cider, leading our group in recounting the fight. We laugh about moments that terrified us while they were happening. We hear the story of the finals from everyone's perspective, but it never feels repetitive. Tommy's is of course the most fascinating point of view, though he is the least loquacious in his telling of it. People surround our table and stare, but it does not bother us. This moment, no matter how many people witnessed it, is for the Conlon family.

We end up stuffed to bursting and standing outside on the boardwalk, breathing in the cool evening air. The evening is filled with promises, but no one can seem to come to a decision about what to do. Paddy retires when night falls, claiming he is too old to hang with us all. I know that he is taking himself out of temptation's way. His boys smile and tell him good night before we all head out to the block party on the boardwalk. The music is loud, the liquor is free and spirits are high. Tommy gets dragged up onto a stage where he rallies the crowd into a frenzy with a few grunted words. He gamely signs autographs, leaning over a hastily constructed barrier, marker in hand. He gestures for Brendan to join him, but his brother shakes his head, trying to allow Tommy his moment. Tommy will not be persuaded. He jerks his brother to him, hands him another marker and drags him along. I believe he draws some comfort from Brendan's presence. Brendan enjoys it as well. They are the most alive and carefree when they are together. They laugh, taking pictures, joking with fans. Finally, Tommy decides enough is enough and they excuse themselves, returning to Tess and I.

I feel energy burning in the pit of my stomach, mixing in with my pride for Tommy. Every second I spend watching him, no matter what he is doing, the fire grows. My blood is running hot now. Tommy detects this in my eyes.

"What's wrong?" his arm feels impossibly heavy on my waist. I want to tell him to wrap me to him tightly, to kiss me like he means it. Instead, I ask him to dance. He raises an eyebrow, but I am in no mood for him to refuse me. I see him cast his brother a look that is somewhere between amusement and nervousness, but I drag him somewhere the cameras aren't pointed. The music bumps a heavy bass beat and I begin to sway, my hands locked on his around my waist. I am pleasantly surprised when he pulls me into him, rocking just the slightest to the beat. There is nothing overly sensual about our movement and I long to take it to the next level but there are too many eyes watching. Just the sight of Tommy Conlon dancing causes a flurry of movement as fans rush towards us. Before the DJ can even mix in the next song we are surrounded by increasingly drunken couples. I hear Tommy's laughter over the music as he catches sight of Brendan and Tess dancing a few feet over. The boardwalk becomes a club in a matter of minutes. Tommy pulls me closer to him and I glance at his face. He looks completely happy. He is even smiling.

As the light of the day fades and we get more lost in the crowd, I become bolder with my movements. I rock backwards into him, throwing a swivel to my hips. I am fully aware that I am playing a dangerous game, that anyone might see us. But people are so wrapped up in their own debauchery that they pay us no serious attention. Tommy's grip on my waist tightens until it is almost painful. I desperately want to kiss him. Throwing caution to the wind, I spin around to face him. He meets me halfway. The passion of it is so intense that it robs me of breath. I lean up on my tip-toes, trying to get closer to him. When someone wolf-whistles loudly at us, I am successfully returned to the here and now. I pull back with a gasp. Tommy leans into me, his lips right at my ear. "Let's go," he tells me. I have no mind to argue. We wave goodbye to Tess and Brendan who are wrapped around each other, enjoying some beers.

The walk back to the hotel is longer than it has any right to be. There are people every few feet clamoring for Tommy's attention. He makes attempts to be polite to them all, but after a half hour, his patience has worn thin.

"This way," he tells me, pulling me down a side street. We zigzag around through back streets, sticking to shadowed areas I would never dare walk alone. But with Tommy holding my hand, I am confident that nothing will happen to us. He convinces hotel security to usher us in the back way. We take the service elevator and practically sprint down the hall into our room. He enters first, flipping on the light, pulling me in after him. The urgency in his actions reminds me of our first time together. He kisses me again, gently this time, steering me over to the bed.

"One second," he says. He disappears into the bathroom.

I wait for him. His Sparta belt sits on our hotel room bed, gleaming against the puce colored sheets. I trace the cool metal with my fingers and run my hands over the supple leather of his belt. I sit cross legged on the bed, eagerly awaiting his return. Watching him fight, knowing that it is all over, that we can start talking about future plans that do not involve Sparta, has me all riled up.

"You like it?" he asks, emerging from the bathroom in only his boxers briefs. The sight of him, muscled like an Adonis, sets my blood pressure up a few notches.

"It's beautiful," I say. I forgot that we are talking about the belt.

"Want to wear it?" he asks, walking towards me. I unfold my legs and lean back on my arms.

"It might clash with my dress," I tell him teasingly.

"So take your dress off," he says. It could be a lighthearted comment, but something in the deep timbre of his voice makes me sure he is not joking. His pupils dilate, the grey blue irises shrinking into a thin line. My breath catches in my throat and my hands begin to shake as I reach behind me to lower the zipper. Tommy becomes inpatient and his calloused palms circle me, grasping the small metal piece and yanking it down. He makes short work of my outfit, disregarding the sanctity of the fabric as he tosses it into an unsightly pile on the floor.

"I'd rather see you in the belt," I tell him against his lips.

"I wore it already," he tells me, increasing the pressure of his mouth against mine.

"But you earned it," I say. He kisses me on my collarbone, his damp hair brushing against the bottom of my chin. "You were amazing," I continue, my breath coming in gasps as his attentions wander lower, "Tommy, I am so proud of you."

His head whips up, his lips claiming mine in a bruising kiss. His fingers press into the skin of my abdomen and I reach down, twisting my slender fingers around his. He pulls me into his cloth-covered lap. He presses me down hard against his thighs. I pull back, breaking our kiss. He watches me through hooded eyes as I reach for his championship belt and stand up. It is far too large to sit on my waist, but I swing it around anyway, pulling it closed and holding it there with my hands. "What do you think?" I ask him playfully.

He smiles. "Come here," he stands up, dropping his last scrap of clothing to the floor. I feel my eyes drop unconsciously to his naked body and my heated skin flares into an inferno. Tommy reaches for me, jerking my hips into his. Skin meets skin in a feverish dance. He lifts me into his arms, removing the thin lace of my bra and panties that is the only barrier between us. I expect him to carry me to bed, but instead he turns us against the nearest wall. One arm is under my legs, the other is pressed palm down against the wallpaper. Coherent thought flees my mind as he slams home in one hard movement, nearly causing my eyes to cross. His name is ripped from my lips and I lean backwards, helpless against him. Not that I am complaining.

Tommy is thrusting like a man possessed. My hands come to the back of his neck and I jerk his head towards mine, plundering his mouth while he pumps against me. My legs feel weak, my muscles shaking, and a coil tightens in the pit of my stomach, begging to be released.

My name falls from his mouth with so much reverence that it could be a prayer. I feel myself fall apart against him. My body goes limp in his arms. He pulls back slightly, lifting me away from the wall and walking us backwards. The back of his legs hit the mattress and we topple downward, my hair arching over us. I fall forward against his chest, my head landing in the crook of his shoulder. My breathing is labored, but I have gained my second wind. On and on we go, like a marathon, until I feel ready to pass out. Hard and fast, slow and gentle, we continue making love until Tommy is finally spent. I lay beside him, our legs twisted together, one of his hands in my hair, his other sandwiched between our bodies, tangled with mine. I listen to the slow rhythm of his breathing.

"I've got money now," he says, sounding like he cannot quite believe it.

"You do," I agree. "You worked your ass off for it."

"I can buy a place in Bristol," he continues. A small smile tugs the corner of his mouth.

"You could buy a whole block," I laugh.

"What kind of house do you like?" he asks quietly, unable to quite meet my eyes.

"I get input?" I ask.

"Well, you're going to live there," he says as though this is obvious.

"Are you going to be there too?" I tease.

He moves his hand from my hair, trailing it down my stomach. "I better be. I don't wanna be your sugar daddy."

The absurdity of that phrase coming from his mouth makes me laugh. "Are you saying you're not sweet?"

"I can be plenty sweet," he smirks. His hand dips between my legs, causing me to gasp.

"In that case," I roll my body upwards, arching my back, "I want an old-fashioned looking house. A Colonial with a porch."

"Anything else?" he asks against my skin.

"And big windows." I reach out, pressing my palm against his abs. "And a yard."

"How big?"

"Huge," I sigh as he moves against me.

"Need kids for a big house," he observes.

"Then we will need to have some. Two girls and two boys," I say.

Tommy grasps me tighter. "Sounds like a plan."

The implications of what he is saying begin to sink in. "Kids are a lifetime commitment," I say.

He braces his hands on both sides of my face, bringing my eyes to meet his. His lips brush over mine in a languorous wet kiss. "Sounds good to me." As if to drive his pronouncement home, he shifts his hips, entering me.

I desperately hope that Brendan, Tess, and Paddy are out as I scream.

We fall into a lazy sort of pattern of dozing off only to be woken up again by the other's desire. Eventually, even Tommy is worn out. I close my eyes, drifting into a deep sleep in Tommy's protective arms. My dreams are wonderful, pictures of a life together, of what we could be now. I vaguely feel Tommy absentmindedly playing with my fingers, a habit he has developed when he sleeps. The motion is so comforting to me now that I find it difficult to sleep without it. His rough fingers trace a path up to the tips of the fingers on my left hand. Suddenly I feel a different texture than the familiar pattern of his skin. I open my eyes, blinking blearily.

A platinum band is sitting on my left ring finger, with a sparkling diamond in a round brilliant cut gleaming from the center. Now that I have realized it is here, the weight of it feels immense. I feel my breath catch as I stare at it, unbelieving. I go so far as to pinch myself, surprised at the sting it causes on my forearm.

"Tommy," I roll over to look at him. "Tommy what is this?"

He is looking at me, his azure eyes faintly lit in the darkness. "What's it look like sweetheart?" he asks. His voice is quiet, but not heavy with sleep. It is obvious that though I have been dozing off, he has not.

"You tell me," I say. My heart feels like it will pound out of my chest.

"You know what it is," he reaches for my hand, spinning the ring around my finger with a broad thumb.

"No I don't," I say, truthfully. "Not until you ask the question."

We stare at each other, the novel weight of the ring on my finger hanging between us.

"I had a whole speech," he swallows thickly, "Practiced it with Brendan and everything."

"So tell me," I suggest gently.

"It was something about me loving you and being really happy when I'm with you…" he trails off, sitting up and throwing back the covers. "And wanting to be with you forever." His voice gets a little bit stronger.

"I was going to get down on one knee," he says, kneeling. "I was planning on wearing clothes when I did it," he admits. We are both nude as our birth day. I lean over to the bedside table and flip on the lamp. Since he is kneeling naked on the hotel floor, literally baring himself to me, I let the sheet around me fall and place my feet firmly on the floor.

"I like you better without clothes," I tell him. My joke visibly relaxes him. He exhales deeply and then straightens his shoulders.

"I don't think I was ever really happy until I met you," he says. "And now, I'm only really happy when you're around. And I like it," he runs his hands through his hair, visibly nervous. "I know I'm a pain in the ass sometimes, and I know I'm grumpy and can be a jerk, but for some reason you've hung in there with me for a year now. And I was hoping you might hang in there with me for the rest of our lives."

He licks his lips, staring up at me, his expression nervous and expectant all at once.

"Nicole," he slips the ring off of my finger and holds it up, "Will you marry me?"


	26. Chapter 26

**Author's Note: So sorry for the crazy delay! Between work and writer's block, I know I've been bad updating. Thanks to Tallulah for getting me back on track and thank you to all of you for being so patient. There's an epilogue coming, and I promise you won't have to wait two weeks for it! ****  
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><p>My hand sits in Tommy's rough palms. I feel my fingers involuntarily flex against his calloused skin. He is looking at me with almost childlike anticipation. I feel as though a balloon is expanding inside of my chest. This moment is unexpected, to say the least. My mind races as I try to put together the pieces in the puzzle of events that have led us here. Even though my appraisal of the ring is amateur at best, it is clear that it did not come cheap. The yellow diamond sparkles from its platinum band. It is truly beautiful, more so for what it represents than its exterior. This ring took time to select, and planning.<p>

"Tommy," I swallow thickly, choking down emotion, "when did you get this?"

"Right after my birthday," he seems taken aback by my question.

I feel my eyes begin to well over. Tommy looks panicked. I want to reassure him, but I simply cannot find the words.

"Nicole," he begins to stand up and move towards me, but I reach out with my right hand and push down on his shoulder. He settles down, looking up at me with a concerned expression. I maintain my hold on him, drawing strength from the warmth of his skin.

The white hills of raised scar tissue, the dark ink of his tattoos are all marks that I have become familiar with.

I know this man, inside and out, better than I have known anyone before. There is no one I would rather wake up next to every morning, no one I would rather have by my side when I cry or feel sick. He is the one who I want to tell the details of my day to, the person who my mind wanders to in quiet moments. I want him with me every day. I want to fall asleep in his arms, have his children, and bait him for that crooked smile of his. I want to marry him.

"Yes," I say, steadying my voice. I look directly into his indigo eyes. Everything I have ever wanted is reflected in them.

"Yes, you'll marry me?" he asks slowly.

I nod, sliding my hand from his shoulder to the base of his neck. "I want to marry you," I say, leaning into him. "Tommy, I want to marry you."

"Then why are you crying?" his palm flattens against my back, stirring up immediate goose bumps.

"I thought you were never going to ask," I say into his shoulder, feeling ridiculous.

To my surprise, he chuckles. "Had to get the balls to do it first." He kisses me gently and pulls back. "You want your ring?"

I nod again, more zealously. He takes my hand. I notice we are both trembling.

With the shyest smile I have ever seen grace his face, he slides the metal over my ring finger. When it reaches its destination, he grasps my hand tightly in his own. I study our intertwined fingers, the differences in color and size and texture, twisted so closely it is hard to tell where one begins and the other ends. He holds me against him, chest to chest. I am stuck by the absurdity of the situation, the two of us naked on the floor of the same hotel we met in.

A year ago he was broken and angry at the world. A year ago I cared only for my work, solely for the story. And here we are now.

I lean up to kiss him, brushing my lips softly across his. He lets me set the pace, his hands tip toeing across my body like we have all the time in the world. I unfold my legs and begin to stand, slowly enough so that he rises with me. I settle back onto the bed, lost in a tangle of sheets and the sensations Tommy is causing. He settles his considerable weight over me, careful as always to not put too much pressure on my body. I run my hands over the contours of his muscles, the hard angles of his thighs and abdomen, the smooth curves of his pectorals and biceps. I have forever to feel him like this, until both of us are old and sagging, until age has dimpled our skin and grayed our hair. The thought is elating.

"I love you," he tells me, pulling his lips away for the barest of moments. "I always will."

He nibbles my lower lip and I open for him, like a flower to the dawn.

"I love you," I whisper, over and over again. Every touch is like an electric shock, sizzling through my limbs, leaving me tingling. I feel a surge of energy, as though I am capable of amazing physical feats. I exercise my newfound strength to roll us over until I am on top of Tommy. Since words have failed me tonight, I will take a page out of his book and find some nonverbal way to tell him how I feel. If his groans of pleasure are any indication, he is perfectly content with this arrangement. I brace my hands on his chest for leverage, filled with energy, even at this ungodly hour. I feel as strong as Tommy does in the ring, untouchable.

Until tonight, I have only ever experienced shades of this sensation, but now it all comes swooping in. It is a heady mixture.

"Nicole," Tommy rumbles underneath me, "Nicole, Nicole, Nicole."

I realize his name is leaving my lips as frequently as he is saying mine. Our voices form a kind of rhythm, as consistent as a metronome. After a while they meld together, one sound, the syllables indistinguishable. The familiar tingling begins in the pit of my stomach, expanding through my limbs like lightening, pulling me over the edge and taking Tommy with me. For a moment, I am disappointed tonight has to end, that I have not had sufficient time to experience everything it has to offer. But then Tommy rolls me over in that familiar way, pressing his body to mine like two puzzle pieces coming together.

"Looking forward to falling asleep like this every night for the rest of my life," Tommy's hands rub a soothing pattern into the skin on my back. His voice thrums against my body, relaxing me. "Me too," I kiss him gently. This time we actually do fall into a deep, content sleep.

The next morning is surreal, and I find myself checking my left hand often to confirm that it was not all a dream. Judging by the expressions on their faces, his family is unsurprised by our engagement. Tess demands to see the ring. As she squeals over it, complimenting Tommy's taste and congratulating the both of us, I see Brendan and Tommy talking quietly to each other in the background. Tommy breaks into a huge smile at something his brother says and the two of them hug, albeit quickly and manly. I accept the hugs from the Conlon family and am especially touched with Paddy.

"Welcome to the family," he says in that gruff voice of his, "Take care of my boy."

I hug him back tightly. Whatever he once was, he is a loving parent now. "I promise," I whisper to him. He smiles at me and then the moment is over. There are plane rides to catch, work to return to, interviews to attend, and children to go home to.

"I love you," Tommy says to me as he drops me off at the airport. "I'll see you real soon."

I miss him before my plane even takes off, but comfort myself with the fact that soon, we will be together. To distract myself, I use the flight time to create a list of people who need to be called. I start at the top with family, but as I add more names, coworkers and friends, I realize the impossible task set before me. I literally want to tell everyone—the man sitting next to me, the stewardess, and the pilot, and anyone who will listen. Instead, I bite my tongue, trying to remember that anything I say has a likelihood of ending up on an MMA blog. However, I cannot refrain from calling my mother and father the moment I land, before I even make it to the baggage claim. I do not even bother to say hello before I blurt out my good news.

"You are what?" my mother sounds like she is driving on the other end of the line.

"Engaged," I practically shout it into the mouthpiece.

"To Tommy?" I cannot decide if her shock offends me or not.

"Obviously, mom," I tell her, fighting through the crowd to reach my luggage.

There is a scuffling on her end and then a noise of squealing tires and then the sounds of traffic fade away. "Start over," she instructs me, "from the beginning."

I carefully recount the details, tip toeing around any mention of nudity. I describe the ring as best as I can, but my mother is not concerned with jewelry.

"How do you feel?" she asks.

I pause for a moment, searching for an adjective strong enough. "Jubilant," I say at last.

"And…?" she prompts.

"Excited," I continue, "A little bit nervous."

"Why?"

"Well, we are taking two lives and making one and I suppose…" I switch the phone to my other ear and lunge for my bag, "I suppose that is a lot to take in."

"Are you moving?" she continues to interrogate me.

"No," I say. "He is."

"Into your house?"

"We haven't discussed it that far. I think though, we are going to look for a family house."

"Are you pregnant?" this time, her panic is evident.

"Mom, no. One thing at a time," I sigh.

I hear her exhale hard. "That's good." She says. "This is good."

"Really?" I ask. "It sounds like you are freaking out."

"Well, my daughter is getting married," she tells me, considerably more calm now. "To a man I've only met once. Clearly, your father and I are going to have to make a trip out to visit. We need to congratulate you face to face."

"So you are happy?" I feel my childish need for her approval creep back in.

"Oh, hon, you could do a whole lot worse than Tommy. And frankly, he is lucking out getting you." She laughs. "Your dad and I watched his tournament on television. He's quite the athlete isn't he? How much does he work out?"

"A lot," I join her in laughing.

"Well," she says simply, "that must be pleasant for you."

My laughter escalates into something more hysterical. I am fully aware of some of the strange looks I am receiving. My mother continues asking for details, prying about where we were, what he said, what I said in response. Eventually I admit we were in bed at the time. I expect her to become awkward after I divulge that detail, but instead she confides that my father's proposal to her was similar. As much as I could go without the mental image, there is something comforting in the parallel. My parents are happy together, and I could do a lot worse than being the kind of wife that my mother is.

Telling my father is a similar experience, though he is not as interested in the romantic details. The women at work and my girlfriends are a completely different story. They clamor to see the ring and immediately set about appraising its shape and color, complimenting Tommy's taste. The sight of my ring seems to embolden them, and after they grow bored with the story of the proposal, they begin asking far more personal things, specifically about our sex life. I suspect that they have been dying to ask these questions since they found out I was dating Tommy. I am tempted, in my perpetual state of giddiness, to give them a few details, so I throw them a few nuggets of information. Sure enough, news goes out online that Tommy and I are engaged.

I refrain from reading too much of it. Some of it is not flattering at all, especially from Tommy's more feverous female fanatics.

Tommy calls every night. Sometimes our conversations are long, sometimes they are squeezed in between television spots, but always they end with an "I miss you." It is borderline intolerable, the longing I feel, especially at night. I am reminded of what Tess said about wrapping your life around a man. My inner feminist roars, trying to coax up the attitude of younger me, the no nonsense, no prisoners Nicole I was a year ago. I like this Nicole better, the kind who can be as silly as I want to be and not feel judged, the kind who knows that my man is skilled at soothing me when I rage over whatever work thing that has gotten me riled up. I like that I am the one most capable of coaxing him into a smile or a laugh, the one who best understands his moods. I love that though I am lying here missing him, somewhere, not so far away, he is missing me too.

Our reunion is unexpected, at least for me. I stroll into work nearly three weeks after Sparta, balancing coffee and paperwork. Gavin meets me almost at the door.

"We need to work on that piece for the upcoming draft," I tell him, my mind buzzing with work to be done.

"We'll get to it," my friend pulls the paper out of my hand, relieves me of my coffee and turns me firmly in the opposite direction of the editing booths.

"Gavin, what-?" I begin to ask.

"Someone's been waiting for you," he jerks his head in the direction of my desk.

"Who?"

"Go see," he says with a little push. I navigate my way through the cubicles until I come face to face with my fiancé. He is seated at my desk, feet up, looking tan and radiantly happy.

"Play hooky with me?" he asks in lieu of a greeting.

We make record time to the parking lot.

"I've got a surprise," he says. We are seated in my car, but Tommy is driving, speeding down the streets with purpose.

"What is it?" I ask.

"You'll see," he smiles at me, leaning over at a red light to lay a bruising kiss on my lips.

Ten minutes later he pulls in front of an open house sign sitting on an immaculate emerald green lawn. A white colonial is perched in the center of the lot, looking like a jewel nestled on green felt. Its walls are all ivory colored boards of wood accented by sapphire shutters and a ruby front door. I step out of my car with my mouth hanging open. Without a word, Tommy grabs my hand and leads me inside.

"What do you two think?" the realtor, a pretty blonde, asks us as we take the grand tour.

The sun is streaming in through large shuttered windows onto the cream colored hardwood floors. The rooms are spacious, almost to the point of absurdity. My mind flashes back to my little place, with its rooms filled to bursting. There is a redbrick fireplace, walls already painted a lovely shade of olive. There is a backyard big enough for a jungle gym and a garden and maybe even a pool. There is space here to not only start a family, but to raise one as well.

"What do you think, babe?" Tommy echoes.

"I think," I pause, looking around, "this is it."

"Do you want to look at more?" he asks.

"We probably should," I admit. The realtor looks a little bit crestfallen, but logic wins. We spend the next two weeks bouncing around on weekends, looking at red brick houses, two story behemoths and sprawling ranch styles. They are all beautiful in their own unique way, but the white house has me. Tommy agrees. By the time the keys are in our possession, Tommy is a full time resident of Bristol and our life together can officially begin.

"Well," Tommy begins as he sits the last of what feels like thousands of boxes down on the ground. The living room is packed wall to wall with our belongings. I am exhausted from carrying things, even though Tommy admittedly did most of the heavy lifting. Still, it is a strange feeling to be here, one half of a couple, instead of alone a few miles down the road. My house is officially on the market and no longer technically mine. My home is with Tommy now.

"Well, what?" I ask him, flopping down on the couch. It is the only uncovered bit of furniture we have. Even our bed, a brand new, four poster behemoth, is still sitting in a box upstairs.

"We're in," he says, falling down next to me. I scoot my legs over, but he pulls them into his lap.

"Well, almost," I say with a laugh, "we still have a lot to unpack."

"It can wait," he tells me, pulling my shoes off one by one. His fingers feel amazing as they massage my sore feet.

"We need to at least get some things out," my head lolls backwards, "like the bed."

"Why?" he asks. "We can fit right here." To prove his point, he pushes me backwards, stretching out over me.

"One track mind," I mock scold him, even as I reach my arms up to embrace him.

"With you babe," he kisses me, "it's always gonna be that way."

I smile against his mouth as we share our first kiss in our new home.


	27. Epilogue

**Author's Note: This is it! It is finally done! A thousand thank yous to all of the readers, reviewers and well-wishers, and a special thank you to my beta, Tallulah. I hope you all enjoyed!****  
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><p>"Babe, are you ready?" I poke my head out of the bathroom to glance at my husband. He is standing in front of our floor-length mirror, looking like he might be sick.<p>

"Hell no," he grunts at me. I have to agree with him: his shirt is unbuttoned, his tie is lying haphazardly on the edge of our bed and his brunette hair is in desperate need of a comb. I repress my sigh.

"You'll do fine," I say as I shove my chandelier earrings and Christian Louboutin gold sandals on hastily and walk towards him. "Tell me what you're going to say," I instruct calmly.

"I don't know. I hate these goddamn things," he says, taking a shaky breath.

"They don't expect you to talk long," I say. I begin buttoning his shirt, starting at the bottom and working my way upward to his chin.

"I don't want to talk at all," he sounds as petulant as one of our sons. I tell him so. "Where are the kids?" he asks. "They've been quiet too long."

The words have scarcely left his mouth when we hear a bang from down the hall that sounds like something heavy has fallen. We exchange eye contact, silently counting to ten, exercising a tried and true parenting method.

I barely make it to 7 before I am yelling.

"Eddie! Nick!" My feet slide across our floor as I make for the door. I hear my sons scrambling, no doubt trying to get away.

"Nicole," Tommy grabs my arm, gently pulling me back. "I've got it," he tells me. He stomps off down the hall, sounding like the big bad wolf. I know that once he gets to their room it will be a completely different story. I strain my ears to listen.

"What'd your mom say about fighting in here, huh?" His voice is as loud and deep as ever, but there is no anger in it. "Eddie, get off your brother, man."

"Daddy!" I hear Nick's young, plaintive wail, "Eddie put me in a choke hold!"

"Did not!" Eddie's voice is so loud it can be clearly heard. "Stop being a baby!"

"It hurt!" Nick whines again. I begin moving toward the door with the intent of defusing the situation.

"Ed!" Tommy only calls our eldest that when he means business. The boys both immediately snap to attention. "What'd I say? Didn't we talk about this?"

"Yes," I hear Eddie sounding shameful as I come down the hall.

"Why are you beating on your little brother?"

"I just wanted to show him how to do one," Eddie complains.

"Na-uh!" Nick begins to protest but Tommy cuts him off.

"Stop lying Ed. I already told you two that when you want to fight, you come to the gym with me and do it like men. Only cowards pick on people smaller than them."

I think my husband is being too harsh, but I wait anyway, suspenseful for what he will say next.

"You guys are brothers. You have each other's back. You don't fight up here."

"You fought Uncle Brendan," Eddie has the stones to sound accusatory. He inherited a lot from his father, including his brass balled courage.

"In the ring," Tommy says. We have yet to tell the kids the complex details of their father's childhood. It is a subject we are in no hurry to broach.

I push the bedroom door open and am greeted by the sight of my two sons standing sheepishly in front of Tommy. Their dress shirts are wrinkled, but I am happy to see they are still clean. There is no time to iron again though. My irritation ratchets up.

"Button your shirt boys," Tommy tells them, noticing my annoyance. They both immediately comply.

"You look pretty mommy," Nick tells me shyly. He is almost me in miniature, even down to his nature. But his eyes and mouth are the same shape as his father's, almond and plump, and his hair has soft waves to it that mine could never manage.

"Yeah, you do," Eddie adds. Standing next to Tommy, I am struck by how similar they are. With the exception of his darker skin, Eddie is Tommy in child form, even down to his occasional sullenness. He has a wild streak that has gotten us in the ER more times than I care to count, but he can be incredibly sweet when the mood strikes.

"Nick, go get Tina," Tommy instructs. My baby boy runs off gladly, socked feet sliding. I sense that Tommy has something to say to his oldest.

"Ed," he kneels in front of him, coming eye to eye with our 7 year old. "You gotta stop picking on Nick. You ever see your uncle pick on me?"

"No," Eddie pouts, refusing to make eye contact.

"And he's a good big brother. The best," Tommy says. I smile a little. "You want to be like him?"

"I want to be like you," Eddie even stomps his foot to drive his point home. I am struck by the sweetness of this sentiment and I wonder what Tommy will say.

"And I want to be like Uncle Brendan, so really, it's the same thing," Tommy tells him.

I make a mental note to tell Tess. It is the only way Brendan will ever hear about this moment.

Eddie seems to contemplate this for a moment. "Ok," he says at last. It is the most Tommy will get out of him, but it is still an agreement. My husband is pleased.

"Get your shoes on. We're leaving soon." Tommy stands up and turns to me. I smile at him.

"You need to get ready too, come on," I say and take his hand to pull him back to our room.

A half hour later our little family is packed into the car. Tina, our three year old, wears a dress in the same shade of gold as mine, though hers is more reminiscent of a Disney princess gown. She sits in her car seat, babbling happily to Nick who is holding her hand. Tina came out with wild, sand colored hair in the same shade as her uncle's and dark brown eyes that match mine. Her lips have the same plump pout as her father's and he is quick to cave every time she starts to wobble them and cry. Nick and Eddie, only a year apart, are wearing matching black vests over silver dress shirts, and their thick mats of hair have been combed into a respectable style. And Tommy finally has his black tie on, but has declined wearing a jacket. The first and last time he ever wore a tuxedo was our wedding 8 years ago.

"You let Bubba out?" I ask as we pull onto the freeway.

"Yeah, the big guy's outside," Tommy says.

One of the many dangers of living in a male dominated household is letting your sons and husband select the family pet. Two years ago we went to the pound with every intention of adopting an older, medium sized family dog. Instead we returned home with a wriggling, drooling, chubby St. Bernard puppy that has now evolved into something that resembles more horse than canine. But the boys and Tommy love him, and he has grown on me as well. I still am not strong enough to walk him though. That job still falls to Tommy and probably always will.

"Brendan's already there," I check my phone while Tommy drives.

"We'll get there," Tommy reassures me.

"We'd be there by now if someone hadn't spilled her apple juice all over the floor," I shoot my daughter a look in the rearview mirror.

She promptly explodes into giggles. Tommy smirks at me and I cannot keep the smile off my face.

Some things are just not worth getting upset over.

"Eddie, hold my hand," Tommy snags our son as we roll out of our car and begin rushing inside. A few people are still milling around outside the banquet hall. A few fighters wave, most notably Quinton Jackson. He is standing with his own family. Most of the rage has gone out of him by now and he and Tommy even have a friendly relationship. "Better get in there, Conlons. They're trying to get started," he tells us.

Eddie and Nick are already trying to make motions to go play with Jackson's boys but we pull them back.

"Let's go guys," hand in hand in hand in hand, we drag our children inside. Tommy is ushered away almost the moment we get through the door and we are shuffled over to where Brendan, Tess, Paddy and the girls sit. Tina rushes towards Emily and Rosie. The teen girls sweep their cousin up into their laps eagerly. My parents and oldest brother are stationed at the table right next to ours. Michael gives me a kiss on the cheek while Luke, now a college student and nearly a grown man, sportingly ruffles Eddie's hair.

"Thanks for coming," I kiss my parents as they fawn over their grandchildren. My dad is leaning over talking with Paddy in familiar tones.

"You guys barely made it," Brendan remarks easily, sipping his beer.

"The boys had a fight," I explain, sitting next to Tess.

Brendan shrugs, "When don't they?" I laugh a little. It is true that life at our house can be…rambunctious.

"Does Tommy know what he is going to say?" Tess asks me quietly as the MC calls for silence.

All I can do is shrug my shoulders. I honestly have no idea.

"All right guys, let's get this started," UFC President Dana White begins the ceremony. "This man coming up, he doesn't need any introduction. You know him as the best that's been ripping through fight after fight for years now. He's the two time winner of the Sparta tournament, the former Light Heavyweight champ, and just an all-around bad ass."

My sons giggle a little at the word "ass." I make a mental note to make sure they do not add it to their budding vocabulary.

"Tommy is also a hero; he is a Marine through and through. He fought for his country, returning from Iraq wounded from a bomb, but he still didn't quit. After recovering, he won Sparta and rose to be the biggest star in the UFC."

The crowd, a mixture of Tommy's fans, UFC insiders, fighters and their families hoot their appreciation.

"But everything has to come to an end," White continues. "Even the Mean Marine has to retire sometime. It's been a joy watching Tommy fight these past eight years and it is an honor for me to induct him into the UFC Hall of Fame. So without further ado," he gestures behind him to where Tommy is standing, "Tommy Conlon!"

Tommy swaggers to the podium with the expression on his face that won him his nickname over the last 8 years. He avoids the ESPN and SPIKE TV cameramen and blinks at the camera flashes coming from the crowd. He approaches the mic to the sound of loud cheering. Brendan is hooting and hollering, our kids are shouting in childish tones and even Paddy is yelling loudly. Tommy looks directly at us. I can tell he is nervous. I send him a telepathic message and blow him a kiss, hoping he remembers everything I coached him on.

He takes a deep breath and begins speaking.

"You guys know I don't like talking much," he rumbles in his deep voice, gripping the podium's sides. The response to this is instantaneous laughter. "My wife," he continues, nodding his head in my direction, "has been coaching me through this since the beginning. She tells me stuff like enunciate, don't scowl, try not to cuss." The laughter continues and I watch Tommy visibly relax.

"So I'm gonna make it quick. I just wanna say it's been a great time. You know, I came back from overseas, and it could've easily gone to hell for me. But fighting, it's gotten me through some tough times. For both me and my brother," Tommy pauses, collecting himself. Brendan raises his glass from our table. The two exchange small nods.

"You guys and my fans, you've been great. It's been a helluva ride. But it's time for the next thing, you know? I've got boys now and a little girl. So I'm thinking it's time to be a dad. But I'll always be around. I just won't be in the ring anymore." The applause begins, but it appears that Tommy is not finished.

"Nicole, thank you sweetheart, for being my anchor and putting up with my crap. I love you. And thanks to Pop, Brendan and Tess, and the rest of my family. Really, I couldn't have done it without you," he says. I feel my eyes begin to well up. I am aware my children are staring hard at me with looks of confusion. I bite back my emotion, resolving not to cry, despite the pride I feel.

Tommy walks off the stage the same way he used to walk out of the ring, silently, with long strides. He beelines straight for me, pulling me to him and laying a kiss on my lips that makes me flush from the roots of my hair down to my toes. When he finally relinquishes me, the crowd is hooting and whistling. He does not seem to notice.

"How'd I do?" he leans over to ask me as the waiters come around with dishes of food.

The tables are all mixed up now. Eddie, Nick and Tina are dodging around people's ankles, playing with cousins and talking to fighters they have become familiar with over the past few years. Angela, Michael's wife, and Tess are chatting amicably about some book they have both read, Emily is talking about SAT prep courses with a friend of hers and Rosie is relating her fears about high school to her grandpa. Brendan and Mike banter back and forth, teasing like they do at every family gathering.

"You did amazing," I tell him, kissing him gently over our plates.

"Champagne?" a waiter asks, brandishing a bottle.

Tommy holds out his glass, but I decline. "C'mon, sweetheart. I'm driving," he tells me, attempting to hand me his.

"I can't," I say simply. For a moment there is silence, and then Tommy begins laughing.

Brendan and Mike have overheard the last part of our conversation.

"Seriously?" Brendan laughs, looking at his nephews and niece across the room, "Again?"

Our table waits for my response.

"Again," I grin in Tommy's direction, looking nowhere but him.

"Does ESPN just count on you taking maternity leave every 18 months?" Mike jokes, pushing my shoulder lightly.

"Hey now, Tommy's part of the problem," Tess giggles, coming to my defense.

"Can't keep her off of me," Tommy shrugs. I shake my head at his joke, but he grabs my hand.

"That's great, sweetheart. Seriously," he whispers into my ear.

I cannot stop smiling. The night whirls by and a carousel of faces approach our table, offering congratulations, recounting fights, taking pictures. Tommy shines, as usual, but refuses to walk more than three feet away from me.

"So," a reporter asks Tommy as the night wraps up, "what's next for Tommy Conlon?"

Tommy looks at me over his microphone, with that crooked smile playing on his lips.

"Whatever I want," he tells him simply.

"Are you ready?" I ask him later, Nick asleep in my arms. Tina is nodding off in Paddy's lap. Only Eddie is still buzzing with excitement.

"Yeah, Nicole," Tommy swoops Eddie up, "Let's go home."

Our little family exits together, ready for whatever comes next.


End file.
